On Parasocial Relationships and Podcasting

Valentine’s Day is once again upon us. As with other holidays, whether or not you personally care about Valentine’s Day, it is certainly difficult to ignore. For those who are lucky enough to have relationships—romantic or platonic—to celebrate, this day might be one that you look forward to and enjoy, although, I’m sure there are plenty of people in relationships who dread the social pressure and obligation that comes with Valentine’s Day. On the other hand, for those who don’t have these sorts of relationships, Valentine’s Day can serve as a depressing reminder of all you feel you lack. At any rate, on this day, it would be impossible not to reflect on your relationships, or lack thereof, and what they mean to you.

And reflecting on these relationships, I thought about friends I’ve had over the years. I thought about my oldest friend, who I’ve known for give or take thirty years now, having met in day-care. I don’t actually remember meeting him, as we were both of us about two years old at the time, meaning, meeting him happened before I could even form memories. I thought of friends I made in my early teens, some of whom I still see every once in a while, and one of whom I still see regularly. I thought of friends I made in my early twenties, and ones I’ve made recently. Some of them, I’m sure, will stick around, and some—like the ones who came and went—will fall by the wayside, some gradually, and some dramatically.

And then I thought of another entity, one that you couldn’t really call a friend, but somehow still felt like one. Harmontown. Some of you might recognise that name, maybe just you went: “Oh, shit.”, but for the rest you, I’ll explain. The now defunct Harmontown was a podcast hosted by American TV writer and showrunner Dan Harmon, of Community and Rick and Morty fame, and co-hosted by professional improviser Jeff Davis and Spencer Crittenden, who served as Dungeon Master. Yes, this podcast had a Dungeon Master. The podcast was recorded in front of a live audience in the back of a Los Angeles comic book store. The original conceit was to create a moon colony called Harmontown, where “only cool people” would live. The idea stemmed from Dan Harmon’s desire to leave Earth and all its bullshit behind and create a community of likeminded people on the moon. This idea turned out to be unworkable, as—aside from the inherent logistical problems of relocating to the moon—discussions about what form this utopian society should take inevitably descend into arguments and disagreements. So instead, the podcast took on the form of a casual conversation, albeit a casual conversation had in front of an audience. Each episode would typically consist of the hosts talking about what whatever happened to be on their minds, relaying anecdotes, and generally going off on tangents for two hours. There was no real structure to these conversations, until it was time to close the show with a session of Dungeons and Dragons. It was chaotic, spontaneous, at times quite profound, and above all very funny.

My experience with the podcast started off as simple entertainment, but over time it became a comfort seeking activity. It became safe and familiar, something to fall back on when I was stressed, sad, or simply bored. Due to the conversational nature of the podcast, your mind is free to wonder, and so I would often listen to the same episode multiple times, as I would miss certain bits and so relistening did not feel boring. Typically, I would have the podcast on whenever I was performing some mundane, monotonous task that didn’t require any thinking: cooking, cleaning, jogging, commuting to work, that sort of thing. If I were to estimate how much time I’ve spent listening to Harmontown, I would say I have probably listened to every episode at least four times, adding up to 2,800 hours, but frankly, that feels like a conservative estimate. The real number might be as high as twice that figure, but I can’t know for sure. It’s not like I was keeping track. To put into perspective just how enormous an amount of time that is, even just the lower estimate of 2,800 hours is the equivalent of a year and four months of full-time employment. In his book Outliers, Malcom Gladwell presented the now oft-quoted idea that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to become a world-class expert at something, so had I instead spent my time practising practicing piano —or something—I would be well on my way to that goal. It feels strangely shameful to admit to spending that much time on just, essentially, eavesdropping on people, but let’s be realistic, it’s not as if I would have spent those hours doing anything useful or, heaven forbid, productive. Those hours I spent listening to Harmontown were the dead time between other things I was doing.

But then a thought occurred to me: there are people in my life who I would consider close friends that I’ve spent less time than I have with Harmontown. Think about it, how much time do you actually spend with your friends in terms of hours? Those 2,800 hours over seven years would be the equivalent of about seven and a half hours a week, or 30-ish hours a month. There are few people—especially outside of school, jobs, or family—who I’ve spent that much time with, at least not as consistently. What’s even stranger, I do feel like I somehow know these people, in some sense. I feel I have a good grasp of who these people are. I was a fly on the wall when Dan Harmon got fired, then re-hired, and then re-fired again. I witnessed him get married and subsequently divorced. I was there, in a way, when these people were going through their lives. Only I wasn’t really. These people don’t even know I exist. If I ever were to meet these people I would be in a peculiar position, where I know quite a lot about them, and they know nothing about me. What I was experiencing is called a parasocial relationship.

The term parasocial relationship describes a phenomenon where a person develops a relationship of sorts with a media personality that is decidedly one-sided and non-reciprocal. Typically, these types of relationships are directed towards celebrities, social media influencers, fictional characters, and the like. These personas, as they are called in psychological studies on the subject, are often not aware of being the recipient of such feelings, or even aware of the other person’s existence. The person experiencing a parasocial relationship, however, may feel like they have a genuine connection to that persona, like they would to a friend. Now, all of that sounds quite severe and pathological, but it’s probably good to keep in mind that parasocial relationships exist on a spectrum, where at the milder, more benign end you have someone who quite enjoys, say, a YouTuber, and feels some kind of connection to them. On the other extreme, you have Stan from Eminem’s “Stan”, or Annie Wilkes from Stephen King’s Misery.

So that is basically what I have been experiencing. Now I do want to make clear that I don’t actually imagine Dan Harmon to be my friend. I’m not mental. But I have noticed that a simulacrum of those feelings does exist in me. I thought this an interesting revelation about myself, that I am susceptible to forming parasocial relationships. When I’ve previously heard of the concept, I always supposed parasocial relationships to be the realm of obsessive fans and heavy consumers of celebrity culture, but I’m now inclined to suspect that these sorts of relationships, especially in their milder forms, are quite common. Perhaps more so than a lot of people would care to admit.

So, what are we to think of all this? What is it about us people that draws us to form parasocial relationships? In my completely unqualified and unsolicited opinion, I suspect that loneliness and social anxieties are a big part of that answer. I can definitely see how someone who feels isolated from other people would be more likely to form parasocial relationships. Parasocial relationships seem to offer, at least to some degree, many of the feelings that regular, real-world relationships entail, like intimacy and friendship. The key difference is that parasocial relationships, being non-reciprocal, do not involve a risk of rejection; a podcast will never tell you it’s too busy to hang out or slowly lose interest in spending time with you. In this sense, parasocial relationships are safer for people who have those fears, while affording them the opportunity to enjoy some of what human interaction has to offer.

I think more than anything, parasocial relationships are to do with the human mind’s ability to become invested in things that are illusory. For example, why are horror films scary? Nothing is actually happening in a horror film. A bunch of actors are portraying fictional characters in fictional settings undergoing fictional events. But still, a good horror film will scare the absolute bejaysus out of you. And while a part of your brain knows nothing is really happening, you still jumped. In fact, all fiction would be completely impossible if it weren’t for this trait of the human mind. Why then, should illusory friends not produce equivalent feelings in turn? So, are parasocial relationships inherently bad? Well, I don’t think so. I feel quite normal and moderately well-adjusted despite having experienced one. I think they’re rather like alcohol use. Is it healthy, strictly speaking? Probably not. But if it’s not causing problems in your life and you’re having fun, then by all means, knock yourself out.