Live-streaming from Jinhua, Zhejiang Province, a woman introduces traditional small dolls to viewers. Photo: IC PHOTO

Starting in 2019, I conducted a four-year ethnographic study across multiple livestreaming platforms and talent agencies (or guilds). For six months, I worked as a full-time contracted streamer and closely followed the career trajectories of 19 female streamers, conducting over 40 in-depth interviews. Contrary to popular belief, most of these women did not pursue livestreaming out of fantasies of fame but rather as a pragmatic response to financial pressures.

To offer a multidimensional portrait of platform labor, I focus on the stories of three ordinary streamers: Yueyue, broadcasting from a small town on China’s northern border; Sanmei, a single mother; and Xixi, a southern streamer navigating constant platform transitions. Through their everyday experiences, we glimpse how ordinary individuals carve out paths for themselves within a digital labor system still undergoing construction and adjustment.

Yueyue’s identity masking

Yueyue was the first friend I made on a streaming platform—though our relationship began with a lie.

“Where do you stream from?” I asked.

“Shanghai,” she replied.

It was my first week as a novice streamer conducting fieldwork. Following a guild’s advice, I tried the platform’s “PK” function, a competitive feature where two streamers go head-to-head in a short contest to attract virtual gifts. The winner gains algorithmic exposure. Yueyue appeared on my screen. Neither of us had fans to speak of, so the match was quiet. In the final minute, I sent her a single virtual rose—the cheapest available gift. She sent one back.

Yueyue claimed she lived in Pudong, Shanghai, and streamed independently. She called herself a “Shanghai girl,” yet her livestreams remained eerily quiet. Unlike me—a newcomer with a part-time schedule who had gradually built up a modest following—Yueyue had no “guardians” (loyal viewers). Still, she was far from idle: She bought a new phone on installment, upgraded her internet, lost weight, bought new clothes, practiced singing and dancing, and even handwrote a notebook tracking every viewer who sent her gifts. However, none of this translated into visibility.

Five months later, I invited her for an offline interview. At first, she agreed. After learning I was coming to Shanghai, she finally admitted she had never been to Shanghai at all. Instead, I traveled to her real location—a remote town in northeast China near the border. There were no high-speed trains or airports, and few young people on the streets. Yueyue told me she had dreamed of moving to a city, but she had to stay to care for her ill parents. At 25, livestreaming seemed like the only way to combine caregiving with ambition.

After three days together, I came to understand why her stream struggled—not for lack of effort, but because of algorithmic geography. On her platform, the algorithm promoted her stream to “nearby viewers”—but “nearby” mostly meant elderly residents and children, since the young working population had migrated to large cities. To gain more exposure, Yueyue began “switching cities” in her profile—Beijing, Chengdu, Guangzhou, Shenzhen. She tried nearly every provincial capital or coastal city, chasing better traffic. But she had never been to any of them.

Though her pretense allowed her to enter the algorithmic gateways reserved for “Shanghai streamers,” she still couldn’t hold onto her audience. Misnaming metro stations or slipping into her regional accent would expose her. Occasionally, she reverted to her real location, unwilling to maintain the facade—but every confession brought a sharp drop in views and followers. She came to realize that in livestreaming, city labels are more than geographic—they carry symbolic weight. To be trusted, clicked on, and retained, one must appear to “belong” to that imagined world.

A single mother’s day-and-night grind

Sanmei was the oldest and most relentless streamer I met during fieldwork. By day, she delivered food while livestreaming. At night, she put on full makeup and filters, then logged on to sing until the early hours. She rarely used PK and maintained her stream’s modest traffic by singing. Her usual viewership hovered around 30 to 40 regulars.

Her drive came from necessity. After her father passed away and her marriage collapsed, she became the sole provider for her young son and elderly mother. But she has no time to grieve: “The kid needs school, the family needs food—someone has to carry the household.”

However, the delivery job became more competitive and physically demanding, especially given the challenge of competing against younger men. Then a fellow-townsman mentioned that a younger cousin had joined a streaming guild and was earning a monthly base salary of 5,000 yuan—even without streaming regularly.

Yet she quickly learned that the base pay was conditional. She had to stream at least four hours nightly, from 11 p.m. to 3 a.m. When no one was watching, she played music and sang to “burn time.” If there was no improvement in three months, the base pay would be revoked. The guild encouraged her to stream during the day, but quitting her delivery job was too risky. Therefore, she began streaming while delivering—an unexpected novelty that drew viewer interest. The platform began recommending her, and her following grew. Supporters left encouraging messages and sent virtual gifts.

Her identity as a single mother attracted both sympathy and complications. Some viewers proposed offline meetings or offered financial assistance—but expected more intimate emotional exchanges in return, well beyond platform norms. Sanmei remained clear-eyed: “I’m here to support my family by myself—not to be supported.” Still, to show gratitude, she held an offline fan appreciation event during Chinese New Year.

Xixi’s continual transitions

The most experienced streamer in my study was Xixi, who by the time of writing had been streaming for seven years. When we first met, she had just graduated from a vocational college, and her hometown had only recently emerged from poverty. Inspired by her uncle—who found success by moving to the city—Xixi longed to “get out.”

Over the years, she moved between platforms and guilds, changed streaming styles, and relocated across cities. She even “retired” and “returned” multiple times.

Her first job was on Chinese internet giant Tencent’s NOW platform. Despite a promised 3,000-yuan base salary, she received just over 400 yuan in her first month. When she confronted her agent, “Sister Duo,” she was shown a clause in her contract stating the guild could modify commission terms. Furious, she tried to break the contract. But termination required guild approval—or 180 consecutive days of inactivity. Unable to wait, and having just borrowed money for rent, she contacted a new guild, registered a new account using her roommate’s ID, and resumed streaming. Within days, her account was banned—Sister Duo had reported her for identity fraud and holding simultaneous contracts with two guilds. Eventually, her new guild paid compensation to resolve the conflict, allowing her to continue.

A year later, Tencent NOW ceased operations, and her guild dissolved. Her agent took her and four other streamers to a foreign platform targeting Southeast Asian and Middle Eastern audiences. Eager for growth, the platform offered generous compensation at launch. But “going overseas” proved difficult. The built-in translation tool was poor, and most viewer comments were incomprehensible to Xixi. Worse, bots populated the chat when engagement was low, faking interaction. It took her weeks to realize most of her followers and commenters were not real. This revelation was crushing. The platform’s minimalist design and strong privacy norms also clashed with her previous fan-building strategies. None of her accumulated experience was relevant.

Later, she noticed that major platforms were shifting from entertainment streaming to e-commerce. She followed suit, transitioning to livestream selling. But selling required continuous, high-intensity talking with no breaks. Working shifts with three other streamers, they covered the hours from 8 a.m. to 3:30 a.m. Her voice gave out within a week.

Worse still was the starkly different work logic: While entertainment streaming relied on emotional connection, e-commerce revolved around conversion rates. Success meant precise user targeting, offering compelling products, optimizing logistics, and exact traffic timing. “If one part fails, the whole thing is a waste,” she said wryly.

Realities of platform labor

Though different in detail, the experiences of Yueyue, Sanmei, and Xixi converge on a pressing question: Is livestreaming a viable livelihood for ordinary people?

Mainstream narratives of the platform economy portray livestreaming as a low-barrier, flexible, and autonomous path to success. Scholars refer to such hope-driven self-expression as “aspirational labor,” yet what I encountered was not idealistic creativity, but pragmatic coping in the face of economic necessity.

Yueyue’s identity masking, Sanmei’s day-and-night grind, and Xixi’s constant platform hopping represent three widespread strategies among ordinary streamers. None were top-tier influencers. They received little institutional support or algorithmic favor, yet continued to invest labor and emotional energy, searching for stability within volatile systems. They are not “rags-to-riches” inspirations or tech-era entrepreneurs, but the overlooked backbone of China’s platform economy who deserve understanding and support.

These workers typically sign “performance cooperation agreements” rather than formal labor contracts. Their daily income depends on performance metrics, hours streamed, and algorithmic exposure. Their labor includes not only being online but also managing emotions, sustaining social ties, and constantly adapting to a fluid digital environment. When disputes arise, the division of responsibilities between platforms and guilds remains unclear, leaving streamers with few formal channels for appeal and forcing them to rely on personal experience to adapt.

Thus, whether ordinary people can survive by streaming is not simply an individual question—it depends on how society values this form of labor and whether adequate institutional, legal, and social support is in place. Some platforms have begun implementing protections such as beginner safeguards and guild exit mechanisms. Industry organizations are pushing for standardized contracts and training programs, signaling initial steps toward institutionalization.

To build a sustainable streaming industry, technical and commercial innovation is not enough. We must also center the voices of ordinary streamers and account for their real-life constraints in policy design. After all, the true protagonists of livestreaming are not the headline-making stars, but the countless workers who, day after day, face the camera in unseen corners of the internet.

Wang Yilin is an assistant professor from the Department of Communication at Beijing Normal-Hong Kong Baptist University.