Live Streaming As A Cultural Industry

This is a section of doi:10.7551/mitpress/14526.001.
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Real Life in Real Time

Live Streaming Culture
Edited by: Johanna Brewer, Bo Ruberg, Amanda L.

L. Cullen, Christopher J. Persaud
Citation:
Real Life in Real Time: Live Streaming Culture
Edited by: Johanna Brewer, Bo Ruberg, Amanda L. L. Cullen,
Christopher J. Persaud
DOI: 10.7551/mitpress/14526.001.0001
ISBN (electronic): 9780262374750
Publisher: The MIT Press
Published: 2023
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17 Live Streaming as a Cultural Industry
William Partin
In fall 2019, the gaming live streamer Tyler “Ninja” Blevins appeared on
season two of FOX’s game show The Masked Singer, disguised as an over-
sized ice cream cone and singing Lil Nas X’s “Old Town Road.”1 The episode
was an unusual collision of online celebrity, borne of social media plat-
forms, and legacy media. Why, exactly, was a creator best associated with
streaming video games on Twitch and YouTube warbling on prime-time
television alongside celebrities like Wayne Brady and Johnny Weir? And
what can this episode teach us about the relationship between legacy media
and online cultural production?
Less than two decades a
fter Twitch’s first round of seed funding, live
streaming has become a commercially and culturally significant form of
online media production.2 Although a full literature review is beyond this
chapter’s scope, there’s little doubt that scholars interested in live stream-
ing have always been aware of its commercial dimensions. Early studies
of camming on uStream and Live stream (Senft 2008) or rebroadcasts of
sports on Justin.tv (Bruns 2009) recognized that live streaming was part of
a wave of novel forms of cultural production made possible by the inter-
net. Others linked live streaming to participatory culture, such as Henry
Jenkins’s (2006) well-known book that has come to refer to modes of ver-
nacular cultural production that could disrupt the hierarchies of legacy
media by “democratizing” creative work. More recent work has built on
these foundations by examining the a
ctual labor conditions of streamers
and the political economies they act within, as well as accounting for live
streaming’s explosive growth during the 2010s. These days, there can be
little doubt that live streaming is exemplary of a broader “platformization
of cultural production” (Nieborg and Poell 2018) in which digital platforms

262 Chapter 17
like Twitch and YouTube have become key intermediaries for the produc-
tion, monetization, and circulation of cultural content.
Even so, live streaming’s status as an industry is a comparatively recent
phenomenon and underdiscussed. What is at stake when seeing live stream-
ing not just as a commercial activity, but as a cultural industry? Scholars
often reach for the metaphor of the toolbox, a ready-to-hand repository
of theories and methods waiting to be matched with research questions.
Although useful for thinking about a multiplicity of approaches, it obscures
an important fact: theories and methods do not simply provide ways of
looking at a predetermined object. Rather, they construct what that object is
in the first place. In this sense, seeing live streaming as a cultural industry
is not simply a matter of bringing new perspectives to familiar empirical
territory—it means being reflexive about how that territory and its problem
space are themselves transformed by the tools we have to study them, for
better and worse.
In what follows, I d
on’t offer new data about live streaming. Instead, I
want us to think about how the cultural industries approach constructs a
problem space that expands both the empirical and theoretical horizons of
current research into live streaming. In my view, it is also an opportunity
to think about the uneasy relationship between so-called legacy media and
companies like Twitch. What is actually new and distinctive about t hese new
stewards of culture, and what is simply familiar dynamics in a new context?
Applying the cultural industries approach helps us see that live streaming
is, perhaps, not quite as disruptive as its beneficiaries claim. That’s not to
say nothing is new, but instead it’s to situate live streaming in a historical
trajectory that sees the actually existing live streaming industry as neither
necessary nor impossible.
The Cultural Industries Perspective
If culture refers to “the signifying system through which necessarily (though

among other means) a social order is communicated, reproduced, experi-
enced, and explored” (Williams 1981, 13), then cultural industries are those
“institutions that are most directly involved in the production of social
meaning” (Hesmondhalgh 2018, 483).3 Typically, cultural industries have
included sectors like journalism, book publishing, music, film, television,
and, more recently, digital games. More recent scholarship has expanded

Live Streaming as a Cultural Industry 263
this category to include “social media entertainment,” Stuart Cunningham

and David Craig’s (2019) term for content created by influencers and other
creators who primarily make and distribute their creative output on social
platforms, including (but not limited to) live streaming platforms.
At first glance, the term “cultural industries” recalls Frankfurt School’s
notion of the “culture industry,” most clearly articulated in Theodor Adorno
and Max Horkheimer’s Dialectic of Enlightenment ([1944] 1977). But t here also
some important distinctions as well, and these distinctions reflect the ways
that the concept has grown in sophistication over the last c entury. Tracing
these offers a way into thinking about Twitch’s place in this history and
scholars’ attempts to understand it.
Like many Marxists of their generation, Adorno and Horkheimer found
themselves struggling to make sense of capitalism’s endurance despite its
material inequities. Because purely economic explanations were insuffi-
cient, they turned toward studying culture as a key means by which capi-
talism reproduced itself. As a result, their account of the culture industry
was deeply pessimistic. In their view, the “low culture” that emerged from
Hollywood and Tin Pan Alley served the ruling class by turning the “masses”
into “cultural dupes,” dousing their revolutionary spirit and naturalizing
capitalist hierarchies. Although this perspective’s elitism and unsophisticated
view of media effects have been heavily critiqued, it still captures something
important: the cultural industries are important because they play a vital
role in h
uman sense-making, shaping what individuals think about and
how they think about it.
Later research preserved the Frankfurt School’s understanding of the

importance of culture, but it sought to challenge the school’s unitary view
of cultural production, pessimism, and binary of high and low culture. The
French sociologist Bernard Miège (1989), for example, illustrated how the
culture industries w
ere hardly consistent in their production processes—
what worked in publishing h
ouses had only passing relevance to film
production. (Hence the term “industries” rather than “industry” is used.)
Moreover, although the commodification of culture had its discontents, the
fact remained that the relative autonomy given to filmmakers, novelists,
and musicians meant that they sometimes created commercially successful
work that challenged rather than reinforced dominant values—a significantly
more ambivalent dynamic than envisioned by Adorno and Horkheimer.4
Finally, Miège and o
thers also illustrated how cultural producers often

264 Chapter 17
resisted commercial pressures from executives in order to maintain auton-

omy over their work, meaning that the total commodification of culture
envisioned by Adorno and Horkheimer was not complete, but rather
was contested.
Meanwhile, across the English Channel, the emerging field of cultural
studies (from which the “cultural” of “cultural industries” is derived) retained
the Frankfurt School’s interest in cultural production, but rejected its binary
of “high” and “low” culture. Instead, it saw all cultural products and practices
as being part of the production and transformation of everyday life (Gross-
berg 2010). Among other things, this approach gave agency to the audience
members whom Adorno and Horkheimer had largely imagined as a pliant,
undifferentiated mass. Through concepts like the “encoding-
decoding”
framework (Hall [1984] 2003), scholars operating u
nder the aegis of cul-
tural studies sought to illustrate that consumers make meaning out of cultural
products in ways that do not always resonate with the producer’s inten-
tions. Popular culture, then, became one site of struggle, where tensions
between dominant and subordinate cultural forms are played out.
In pulling on these diverse strands of thought, we should see live streaming
as complex, contested, and ambivalent in the way that other cultural indus-
tries are. This opens up a new set of questions: How does one’s (social, eco-
nomic, political, geographic, etc.) position within the live streaming industry
shape the experience and outcomes of live streaming? How do the affor-
dances and policies of different platforms alter creative production? (Com-
plexity.) How do streamers adopt or push back against dominant values,
whether expressed in terms of content moderation (e.g., by playing with
the “limits” of platforms’ terms of service) or broader social norms? How
do they negotiate tensions with platform owners, investors, and sponsors
when these invariably arise? (Contested.) In what ways does live streaming
offer new forms of creative expression to creators, even as platformization
represents a new means of commodifying culture? How do creators make
sense of and live with the contradictions between “passionate work” and
material instability in live streaming? (Ambivalent.)
None of these questions have easy answers. However, taken together,
they suggest a useful baseline for thinking about live streaming that places
it within a longer trajectory of cultural production and recognizes that
the experiences of creators and their products are complex, contested,
and ambivalent.

Technology and the Cultural Industries

All that said, the fact remains that today’s most prominent live stream-
ing platforms are relatively recent inventions. In fact, a key theme in con
temporary cultural industries literature is how and the degree to which
cultural industries are being transformed by digital technologies, especially
digital platforms. Most scholars in this area agree that this relationship is com-
posed of both change and continuity. Taking seriously the role of technologi-
cal artifacts means thinking through what is distinctive about platform-based
cultural production, while remembering how the long tradition of cultural
production informs the creative activities of professional live streamers.
Technological innovation has always had a dynamic interplay with cul-
tural production. Cultural producers experiment with and adopt novel tech-
nological artifacts, for reasons both creative (e.g., novel ways to express ideas)
and pragmatic (e.g., cheaper production techniques). On the other hand,
new technologies of distribution, w
hether radio or eBooks, offer Intellectual
Property (IP) holders novel means of controlling the circulation of cultural
content. This is particularly true of the last few decades. Increasingly power
ful forms of media infrastructure regulate the movement of audiovisual sig-
nal traffic (Parks and Starosielski 2015), while digital distribution platforms
like Disney+ act as gatekeepers for consumers hoping to access cultural con-
tent (Lotz 2017).
Beginning in the 2000s and accelerating in the 2010s, large technology
firms have become increasingly active in the industrial production of culture.
In some cases, as with Amazon and Apple, these companies have set out
to create (or acquire) in-house studios capable of creating movies, television
shows, and video games that can compete directly with industry incumbents.
More significantly, however,
these companies have offered ser
vices that
host user-generated content beginning (arguably) with Google’s acquisition
of YouTube in 2006. Live streaming platforms like Twitch, YouTube Gam-
ing, Mixer, and Facebook Live fit squarely within this trajectory. Some w
ere
packaged with tools (Partin 2020) that let streamers monetize their streams,
which spoke to the commercial-cultural ambitions of t hese platforms.
The development of platforms like YouTube and Twitch w
ere accompa-
nied by a robust set of discourses from corporate public relations units, jour-
nalists, and academics alike that these services would “democratize” cultural
production by giving ordinary p
eople the means to make and distribute
content and relegate the hierarchies of legacy media to the dustbin of the

266 Chapter 17
twentieth century. By and large, the more utopian predictions of the 2000s
have aged poorly. Although sites like YouTube are framed as digital public
spheres, antidemocratic content has flourished on these platforms not in
spite of but (in part) because of the contrast to legacy media (Lewis 2020).
Likewise, these platforms are hardly nonhierarchical. Not only do platforms
routinely shape what viewers see through content moderation and algo-
rithmic sorting, they also treat creators differentially based on their value to
platform o
wners (Caplan and Gillespie 2020). Moreover, despite promises
of decentralizing cultural production, their political economies of platforms
are arguably even more concentrated and centralized than those of legacy
media conglomerates.
Simultaneously, as my opening anecdote suggests, legacy media firms
have embraced at least some aspects of live streaming. Not only have elite
streaming celebrities like Blevins integrated with legacy media (e.g., by being
signed by Creative Artists Association, appearing on The Masked Singer, etc.),
many traditional celebrities have
adopted Twitch. For example, Jordan
Fisher, who achieved fame as a child actor, frequently streams on Twitch
and is currently represented by the gaming influencer agency Loaded. This
suggests that predictions about the destruction of the fourth estate, whether
celebratory or panicked, have been somewhat exaggerated. Instead, more
viable research questions should attend to where, how, and to what ends
platform-
based cultural production is becoming entangled with legacy
media formations, and to what effects.
Distinctiveness of Cultural Industries

So far, I have offered a quick sketch of the cultural industries perspective,
the special role that information communication technologies play in these
industries, and the relevance of both to live streaming. Before turning to
live streaming in earnest, I want to point to the features that make cul-
tural industries distinctive not just in their outputs, but also their structure.
The cultural industries scholar David Hesmondhalgh (2018) identifies a
number of problems—such as the unusual structure of many misses offset
by fewer megahits, high production costs but very low reproduction costs,
etc.—that together shape cultural industries and the characteristic solu-
tions that these industries have evolved to address them.
To see live streaming as a cultural industry, we might begin by asking
how these questions translate to the network of platforms, streamers, firms,

and fans that, together, we know as live streaming. Some of these analytics
are, to be sure, more relevant than others—some, in fact, are very difficult to
map onto live streaming. Yet even t hose that sit uneasily point to the produc-
tive play of continuity and discontinuity between traditional and platform-
based cultural industries. Being attentive to where these analytics are useful
and where they struggle can help us think through the distinctiveness of
live streaming.
For purposes of space, I do not address t hese individually. Rather, I try to
group them around two key themes that I think are the most revealing: (1)
the dialectic of commerce and creativity (which is continuous when com-
pared to twentieth-century cultural industries) and (2) the riskiness of live
streaming (the relation to legacy media of which is somewhat more fraught).
Live Streaming as a Cultural Industry
Balancing Commerce and Creativity

While Western ideas about artistry have historically lionized creatives who
show indifference or outright hostility to commercial pressures, the reality is
that all cultural producers act within some kind of political economy. W
hether
they are market-based, grant-based, government-funded, or paid through
patronage, the various means by which the material needs of creatives are
met have always been enabling of cultural production, even as they are con-
straining in other ways. This dialectic of creativity and commerce runs deep
and is not inherently problematic, although some arrangements surely are.
Nevertheless, what is clear is that all creatives make choices about what
kinds of cultural products are or are not commercially viable in a given
context. The specifics may vary from time to time, place to place, creator to
creator, but no one is truly independent.
This marks a clear point of continuity between cultural industries and live
streaming. Professional streamers rely on many forms of revenue ( Woodcock
and Johnson 2019) that streamers must consider when making choices
about what to stream, with whom, etc. For example, gaming live stream-
ers select the titles they play on air based not just on their personal interest
or creative whims, but also their audience’s preferences, promotional deals
with game publishers, and the popularity of a given title. Likewise, stream-
ers modulate their on-air personas based on their revenue streams. The rise
in donations, for example, pushed streamers to prioritize “relational labor”

268 Chapter 17
(Baym 2018), fashioning themselves as cultural producers worthy of

viewer-patrons’ financial support. Similarly, beyond meeting the basic con-
tent moderation standards of a given platform, streamers make strategic
choices about their branding based on their audience and sponsors. For
example, Blevins declared that he would no longer swear on air in order to
cultivate a “family-friendly” image that could attract sponsors who market
to children. Such negotiations are a testament to the fact that live stream-
ers, like influencers as a whole, are not inherently more independent than
cultural producers working in legacy media industries. Rather, they exhibit
many interlocking and sometimes contradictory dependencies on audi-
ences, sponsors, platform owners, and game publishers.
These negotiations take place within a cultural economy in which dis-
courses and performances of authenticity are highly prized. Even so, “authen-
ticity” is a notoriously fluid concept and often masks the power dynamics of
how online creators are perceived. For example, the gendered and racialized
dimensions of authenticity mean that the balancing act between creativity
and commerce is experienced differently by different streamers (Gray 2016;
Ruberg, Cullen, and Brewster 2019). More recent work on live streaming
has begun to examine the complexity of t hese negotiations in practice and
how they are mediated by issues of class, subculture, and social identity, but
it remains a rich topic for further study.
(Re)distributing Risk
A defining feature of cultural industries is that they are financially risky,
which shapes most aspects of cultural production and distribution. Tradi-
tionally, “risk” in cultural industries refers to the financial risk assumed by
investors when funding the production of cultural goods. It is broadly under-
stood that the majority of cultural goods lose money due to the fickleness
of consumer tastes and the tendency of stars and genres to fall out of favor
and indeterminacy in the production process (a g
reat script, a
fter all, is not
guaranteed to become a great movie). As a consequence, cultural industries
have developed characteristic strategies for mitigating this risk. For one,
they focus on established formats and brands, which accounts for the high
number of sequels, reboots, and cinematic universes available to consumers
today, as well as television formats that can easily and cheaply be replicated
across regional markets. Moreover, they “overproduce.” Because most cul-
tural products w
ill lose money, firms in the cultural industries must invest

in multiple products simultaneously to see what resonates with consumers.

Under this logic, a small number of high-performing hits will outweigh the
modest losses incurred on the majority of output, leading to overproduc-
tion in the cultural industries.
How does this resonate, if at all, with live streaming? It’s complicated. For
one, the cultural products that demand the assumption of risk are difficult to
compare. Rather than discrete products whose, say, ticket sales can be mea
sured against production and marketing costs, live streamers create synchro-
nous, spontaneous video sessions that may last anywhere from a few minutes
to many hours. So rather than see risk as being manifested in a discrete prod-
uct, I want to argue that risk, however borne, enables the creation of a body
of work by live streamers that will support advertisements, donations, and
subscriptions. In this sense, we ought to think about the totality of stream-
ers’ output and what kinds of financial risk make it possible. So, instead, we
might ask: Where is financial risk in the live streaming industry located?
How is it distributed, and where does it accrue? Who bears it, how much,
and through what legal and/or technical mechanisms? What impacts does
this have, whether on creators, platforms, or other stakeholders?
One place to start is to consider the kinds of risk borne by individual
streamers working on established platforms. Traditionally, cultural industries
are capital-intensive businesses. Even a low-budget indie movie or small digi-
tal game can cost six or seven figures to produce, while high-end productions
routinely stretch into the hundreds of millions—amounts that few individu-
als can afford to bear. By contrast, advocates of online cultural production
have emphasized its low barrier to entry, often favorably pulling on the
rhetoric of democracy and creative independence in the process. And it is
certainly true that one can easily stream to an audience of millions from
one’s bedroom using consumer-grade hardware. In practice, however, it is
easy to understate the degree of investment that is required to sustain a
career in live streaming. As live streaming has grown in popularity, so have
production values for well-funded streamers. All things being equal, many
audiences now expect streams with high-definition 1080p resolution at 60
frames per second, alongside high-quality audio and multiple camera set-
ups. In rare cases, elite streamers build elaborate in-home studios reminis-
cent of daytime television soundstages. So, while it is undoubtedly true that
a Twitch stream’s production costs are considerably lower than those of tra-
ditional cultural industries, they are not as low a barrier as they might seem.

270 Chapter 17
Existing research on the political economy of influencing has found that

the majority of creators live highly precarious lives. To be sure, this external-
ization and individualization of risk is a feature of neoliberal organizing in
general (Weil 2014) and is particularly acute with respect to platform labor
(van Doorn 2017).5 While many creators subscribe to ideas about “passion-
ate work” and “doing what you love” in order to cast materially unappeal-
ing conditions as acceptable (or even desirable) (Duffy 2018), a robust body
of journalistic and academic writing illustrates how the vast majority of
creators, even among professionals, do not live glamorous lives. Moreover,
many creators experience many of the risks of fame (stalking, harassment,
privacy violations, e tc.), but receive little in the way of protection.
All of this is undoubtedly true of live streamers. T
here’s little doubt that
live streamers lead economically precarious lives ( Johnson and Woodcock
2019) and must contend with the constant threat of fraud and a largely
unregulated industry that tolerates considerable amounts of grift. Moreover,
live streamers are largely responsible for all of their own purchases, invest-
ing in significant and risky upstart costs that are not guaranteed to pay off
financially (even if live streaming can be rewarding in other ways). Nor
do live streamers receive much in the way of benefits from platforms. The
“always online” dynamics of live streaming forces many full-time streamers
to spend upward of sixty hours a week live, with e very hour they are not
on air leading to lost revenue in the form of unmade donations, unwatched
ads, and lapsed subscriptions. Finally, live streamers often find themselves
at the whims of capricious and contradictory content moderation choices
that, in the extreme, can lock them out of their primary source of revenue.
At the same time, this risk is generally not shared by platform o
wners.
Although an individual streamer may take a considerable loss a
fter invest-
ing time and money in an unsuccessful live streaming career, this loss is felt
far more acutely at an individual level than an institutional level. Platforms
are very efficient at redistributing risk and responsibility downward and
outward, a key dynamic in their drive toward centralization and monopoli-
zation (Pasquale 2016). Moreover, the policies that Twitch enacts regarding
content moderation as part of a broader program of platform governance
are often highly self-serving. For example, the company’s compliance with
Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA) takedown requests and strikes
means that the risk of streaming copyrighted music as part of a broadcast
is not borne by the platform, but by individual streamers (Taylor 2018).

Likewise, attempts to keep the platform ad-friendly often dictate content

standards in ways that magnify the existing power dynamics; for example,
the advent of “hot tub streams” has inaugurated a new debate about the
overregulation of women’s bodies on Twitch.
Increasingly, however, streamers are not the only stakeholders in live
streaming to bear the risk of broadcasting through a kind of overproduc-
tion. Prominent talent agencies, such as FaZe Clan, w
ill sign large numbers
of up-and-coming streamers. While only a few turn out to be major stars,
their outsize success offsets the comparatively minor cost of signing stream-
ers who do not grow in popularity. Similarly, Twitch provides access to its
platform f ree to all potential streamers, incurring modest fixed and variable
capital expenditures in the process but producing an enormous repertoire
as a result. Only a handful of these streamers will turn out to be bona fide
stars, of course, but the losses of minor and casual streamers are well worth
the expense.
All that said, it is clear that there are some contexts in which established
platforms take on considerable risk. In the late 2010s, as YouTube Gaming
and Mixer emerged as competitors to Twitch, these services’ parent com-
panies (Alphabet, Microsoft, and Amazon, respectively) frequently entered
bidding wars with streaming talent agencies like Loaded and FaZe Clan to
secure exclusivity rights to popular streamers, deals that often stretched into
tens of millions of dollars. Similarly, platforms have often found themselves
paying for media rights to esports tournaments like Overwatch League,
for which Twitch reportedly paid $90 million for two seasons of exclusiv-
ity. Such expenditures place considerable pressure on platform owners to
recoup their investments, a situation similar to the legacy industries that
they once sought to disrupt and very different from the political economy
of other platforms. (Uber, of course, is not paying enormous exclusivity fees
to drivers to stop them from joining Lyft.) Rather than this risk being mani-
fested in the creation of a discrete product, however, this kind of invest-
ment lays claim to a future body of work that will, ideally, support future
advertisements, donations, and subscriptions.
The exceptional exclusivity fees that elite streamers could demand in the
late 2010s have settled considerably, especially following the shutdown of
Mixer in 2020. Nevertheless, t hese kinds of deals are a reminder that while
platform owners often attempt to externalize risk to dependents, they can
rarely escape it entirely. In that, there are some conditions in which live

272 Chapter 17
streaming platforms have more in common with “business as usual” in the

cultural industries and less in common with the financial arrangements on
other labor platforms.
Conclusion
In this chapter, I have introduced the cultural industries approach and what I
believe it can offer to the study of live streaming. It is clear that live streaming
constitutes some kind of cultural industry, insofar as live streamers are sym-
bolic creators who produce social meaning. Thinking about the continuities
between other cultural industries and live streaming provides a number of
opportunities for new lines of research into live streaming, especially with
respect to how streamers navigate the tensions between creativity and com-
merce and the differential distribution of risk in creative production.
Even so, when thinking about many of the phenomena that make cul-
tural industries distinct from other sectors, such questions do not always
translate easily to live streaming. This creates opportunities to rethink or
add nuance to key assumptions in cultural industries research and how
those assumptions do and don’t change at a moment when digital plat-
forms are becoming an increasingly powerful force in cultural production.
At the same time, it is clear that as live streaming has developed from a
commercial activity into a complex industry with multiple stakeholders,
it has taken on many of the characteristics of legacy media industries that
many once hoped that it would defy.
Notes
1. He was duly eliminated.
2. In this chapter, my focus is on Twitch, due to its outsize economic and cultural
influence on the livestreaming market.
3. This section is indebted to Hesmondhalgh’s historiography of cultural industries

research.
4. This observation can help us make sense of why the Condé Nast publication Teen
Vogue runs explainers on Karl Marx, or the Korean conglomerate CJ Entertainment
funded and distributed the anticapitalist film Parasite (2019). Rather than do m
ental
gymnastics to expose how these are secretly an instrument of the ruling class, we
can simply point out that cultural industries are—and have long been—full of these
kinds of contradictions.

5. At the same time, precarious work has been a norm in cultural industries for
many decades due to oversupply and the gigcentric nature of many forms of cultural
production.
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© 2023 Massachusetts Institute of Technology
This work is subject to a Creative Commons CC-BY-NC-ND license.
Subject to such license, all rights are reserved.
The MIT Press would like to thank the anonymous peer reviewers who provided
comments on drafts of this book. The generous work of academic experts is essential
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Brewer, Johanna (Johanna Marie), editor. | Ruberg, Bonnie, 1985–

editor. | Cullen, Amanda L. L., editor. | Persaud, Christopher J., editor.
Title: Real life in real time : live streaming culture / edited by Johanna
Brewer, Bo Ruberg, Amanda L.L. Cullen and Christopher J. Persaud.
Description: Cambridge, Massachusetts : The MIT Press, [2023] | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022043004 (print) | LCCN 2022043005 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780262545655 (paperback) | ISBN 9780262374767 (epub) |
ISBN 9780262374750 (pdf)
Subjects: LCSH: Live streaming—Social aspects. | Social media.
Classification: LCC HM851 .R4322 2023 (print) | LCC HM851 (ebook) |
DDC 302.23/1—dc23/eng/20221227
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022043004
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022043005

Live Streaming As A Cultural Industry

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This is a section of doi:10.7551/mitpress/14526.001.

Real Life in Real Time

Edited by: Johanna Brewer, Bo Ruberg, Amanda L.

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The Cultural Industries Perspective

If culture refers to “the signifying system through which necessarily (though

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this category to include “social media entertainment,” Stuart Cunningham

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resisted commercial pressures from executives in order to maintain auton-

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Technology and the Cultural Industries

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Distinctiveness of Cultural Industries

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