“As soon as a man enters a crowd, his IQ drops significantly. In order to gain recognition, the individual is willing to abandon right and wrong and exchange his IQ for a sense of belonging that makes him feel very safe.”
What an incisive observation.Le Bon’s book has long been a subject of controversy due to its deterministic leanings. We all wear multiple hats: content creators, consumers, commentators, and unwitting amplifiers of trends. Instead of treating this book as a definitive theoretical framework, I see it as a striking “coincidence”-the very phenomena he described are playing out all over again in today’s social media landscape.
The double-edged sword of the digital crowd
I still vividly remember the fan fiction I wrote in junior high school,it gained quite a positive response on social media, making me believe I was exceptionally gifted. I even dreamed of majoring in literature or becoming a writer someday, but reality proved otherwise.On today’s platforms, we’ve been empowered like never before: a single topic, video, or photo can ignite global participation in an instant. Everyone feels they might be the next KOL. This collective carnival is a double-edged sword. “Trends” and “viral spread” have created entirely new career paths.The attention of the masses is a resource, and it allows marginalized voices to be heard. I can be an active participant, leveraging the resonance of the group to amplify myself and realize my value.
Yet the dark side of crowds described by Le Bon has reemerged in the digital age,in ways that are just as harsh, if not more brutal. Crowds are anonymous, thus free from accountability.They are also emotional, easily reducing complex individuals to mere symbols awaiting judgment. Zheng Linghua took her own life after being cyberbullied for posting a photo of herself sharing her master’s admission letter with her bedridden grandfather. The reason? She had pink hair in the photo, and some accused her of being “ostentatious” while her grandfather was ill. This tragedy left me overwhelmed with grief and helplessness.Le Bon wrote: “An individual in a crowd acquires a sense of invincibility brought about by numerical strength, which frees him from all restraint and inhibition.” In that “crowd” composed of countless anonymous accounts, the real “Zheng Linghua” vanished. In her place stood an abstract symbol for the collective to unleash its moral outrage upon. Every casual click, every echoing comment we make, might unknowingly become a snowflake in the avalanche that consumed her. Here, the “self” is lost, reduced to an anonymous cell in the machinery of group violence.
The architect of our choices: Is the Platform Innocent?
When Zheng Linghua’s tragedy unfolded, it’s tempting to direct all blame squarely at that irrational “crowd.” But are the platforms that provide the stage, design the rules, and even subtly steer the narrative truly innocent? Not at all. Platforms are by no means neutral digital squares — they are the architects behind all our choices.
The algorithmic recommendations and Information Cocoons we’re all too familiar with can easily reinforce our biases, making groupthink more likely to take hold. They convince us that our opinions are shared by the majority, and foster hostility toward those outside our bubbles who hold different views. The so-called “viral trends” are not purely the result of natural selection, either.Instead, they rely on algorithmic weighting and human curation to subtly direct collective attention.Take a closer look at the interfaces we take for granted, and you’ll find they quietly nudge us toward compliance. The like button offers instant, quantifiable social validation, spurring us to keep performing for that sense of group approval. Notifications for comments and interactions encourage participation,even bitter arguments are welcome, because engagement itself is the platform’s lifeblood.A platform’s ultimate goal is to maximize user screen time and engagement. Our anger, ecstasy, and disagreements are all monetizable traffic, which is then packaged, sold, or traded for our data. As a result, platforms have no fundamental incentive to fully quell the online conflicts that drive massive traffic. When we think we’re empowered to speak freely, our actions are largely predictable and controllable.This makes me think of Goffman’s “dramaturgical theory”,isn’t this just a performance where we wear masks without even realizing it?
The ripple of resistance: reclaiming the self
A reflective digital lifestyle is on the rise. Some choose to proactively disconnect to reclaim control over their time and attention, others opt to remain anonymous while participating. Of course, there’s much debate over whether inaction and non-participation are truly more effective.An increasing number of people are embracing critical consumption.We develop a habit of pausing to ask, “Is this true? What’s the motivation behind it?” before hitting like or share. We can also consciously seek out niche, diverse information sources, taking active steps to break free from the algorithm-woven cocoon.Nowadays, many people post photos of themselves with pink-dyed hair at major life milestones on social media, as a tribute to Zheng Linghua,this innocent young girl. The topic “I also dyed my hair pink” has become a trending topic on social media. However, I think it differs from previous trending trends—it is proactively created by us users on the platform, and we use it to stand against the ruthless mechanisms and toxic ecosystem.
So, returning to the original question: Am I part of the “crowd”?
The answer is complex and contradictory. At certain moments, I am undoubtedly one of those anonymous, irrational group members. But I am more than that,I can also be a creator, a clear-eyed critic, and a small-scale resister.The ultimate challenge isn’t to completely detach from this digital ecosystem shaped by platforms and crowds,that’s nearly impossible in today’s world. Instead, it lies in maintaining constant self-reflection amid this noisy theater: the next time I feel the urge to like, the next time I want to comment, the next time I’m swept up in a wave of collective emotion, can I pause? Can I listen to that faint yet crucial inner voice and ask myself: How much of this action comes from the true “me”?
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