In today’s dizzying digital age, the line between fact and fiction often feels like a mirage shimmering in the heat of constant information. Yet, for many, the conversation around “fake news” and misinformation feels like a recent phenomenon, inextricably linked with the rise of sophisticated artificial intelligence. However, as one insightful observer, Bartlett, points out, the seeds of this widespread distrust and the blurring of reality were sown long before algorithms began generating plausible-sounding falsehoods. He argues that our collective susceptibility to fabricated narratives isn’t a new bug in the system; rather, it’s a deeply ingrained feature of human experience, a willingness to suspend disbelief that has been cultivated and exploited in various forms for decades.
Bartlett compellingly traces this phenomenon back to the surprisingly popular world of professional wrestling, particularly its golden age in the UK during the late 1970s. This isn’t just a nostalgic detour; it’s a profound cultural touchstone. Within wrestling, there’s a fascinating concept called “kayfabe.” Imagine a grand performance where everyone – performers and audience alike – understands that what’s happening isn’t “real” in the conventional sense. The rivalries, the betrayals, the heroic comebacks – they’re all meticulously staged. But here’s the crucial part: despite knowing it’s staged, the audience actively chooses to invest their emotions, their cheers, and their boos as if it were genuinely unfolding. They immerse themselves in the narrative, allowing themselves to be swept away by the drama, even when their rational minds know the outcomes are predetermined. This act of knowingly investing in fictions, of finding emotional truth in fabricated events, according to Bartlett, created a precedent for a public willing to engage with narratives that openly blurred the lines of reality. It habituated audiences to a form of entertainment that explicitly traded on manufactured drama and emotional manipulation, setting the stage for more insidious forms of deception down the line. It taught us, perhaps inadvertently, how to enjoy and engage with situations that were transparently not what they seemed.
The 2000s then brought a further evolution in this journey towards a more ambiguous reality with the advent of “structured reality shows.” Think of programs where “real people” were cast to play exaggerated versions of themselves in situations carefully crafted and manipulated by producers. These shows, while featuring actual individuals and ostensibly dealing with their “real lives,” were far from unscripted documentaries. They were designed to elicit specific reactions, create predictable conflicts, and deliver compelling narratives, often at the expense of genuine spontaneity. The participants were playing roles, albeit roles loosely based on their own identities, within a pre-determined framework. This genre pushed the boundaries of kayfabe into everyday life, blurring the lines between performance and authenticity even further. Audiences became accustomed to seeing ostensibly “real” individuals operating within clearly manufactured scenarios, again fostering a tolerance for and even an expectation of a certain level of artificiality in what was presented as genuine. The appeal wasn’t necessarily in the absolute truth of the events, but in the heightened drama and emotional resonance of the constructed narratives.
However, the real turning point, according to Bartlett, wasn’t just about entertainment. It was a seismic shift in public trust, triggered by profound real-world events. The 2008 global financial crash ripped through societies, exposing systemic flaws and perceived corruption at the highest levels of banking and government. This was closely followed by the 2009 MPs’ expenses scandal, where public figures were revealed to have engaged in widespread misuse of taxpayer money. These events weren’t staged entertainment; they were stark, undeniable realities that profoundly shook the public’s faith in institutions and authority figures. The cumulative effect, Bartlett argues, was a dramatic and widespread surge of cynicism. “There was an increasingly pervasive idea that everyone in power’s cheating, everyone’s lying, so why should you believe anyone?” he observes. This wasn’t merely distrust of specific individuals or policies; it was a deep-seated suspicion of the entire edifice of power, a sense that the systems designed to protect and serve were, in fact, inherently deceitful. This widespread disillusionment became fertile ground for further misinformation, as people, already convinced of systemic dishonesty, were more likely to believe alternative narratives, even those lacking credible evidence.
This erosion of trust in established institutions, particularly government and financial systems, had a devastating ripple effect on how people perceived traditional media. When authoritative voices and established entities are seen as inherently corrupt or deceitful, the media outlets that often report on and hold them to account also become targets of suspicion. If everyone in power is lying, then the people reporting on them must also be complicit or biased. This is where Bartlett pinpoints a crucial feedback loop: “It makes it easier for people who are criticised by [the professional media] to say it’s all a load of fake news.” This statement perfectly encapsulates the weaponization of the “fake news” accusation. When traditional journalists expose wrongdoing or present inconvenient truths, those being criticized can simply dismiss the reporting as fabricated, leveraging the prevailing distrust against the very institutions designed to provide factual information. This tactic not only deflects legitimate criticism but also further entrenches the idea that all information is suspect, creating a chaotic informational landscape where objective truth struggles to gain traction. The professional media, once seen as a reliable arbiter of truth, now found itself fighting a battle for credibility on an increasingly uneven playing field.
Bartlett’s analysis doesn’t spare anyone; he is critically astute in evaluating both the traditional media and the burgeoning “alternative media” landscape. While he acknowledges the historical accountability mechanisms, however imperfect, within professional journalism, he is equally concerned about the unchecked nature of podcasts and influencers. In the often-unregulated world of alternative media, there’s a distinct lack of the editorial oversight, fact-checking, and ethical guidelines that, however sporadically, govern traditional journalistic practices. This absence of accountability can lead to an unfiltered proliferation of opinions, theories, and outright falsehoods, often presented with the same gravitas as meticulously researched reporting. This isn’t to say all alternative media is problematic, but the absence of robust self-correction mechanisms creates a significant vulnerability for the dissemination of misinformation. Despite this complex and somewhat bleak outlook, Bartlett surprisingly believes the professional media still has a vital, albeit challenging, role to play in navigating this sea of deception. He recognizes that there are no simple “solutions” to fundamentally reverse the pervasive spread of fake information, acknowledging the deep-seated cultural and technological factors at play. However, he offers a crucial piece of guidance for journalists: a call for introspection and a renewed commitment to core journalistic principles, even when it’s uncomfortable.
His advice to journalists is both profound and intensely practical: “Journalists have to understand we like reporting stories that fit our worldviews, and we have to report the stories that might make us a bit uncomfortable.” This isn’t just about covering diverse topics; it’s about confronting one’s own biases, challenging echo chambers, and actively seeking out perspectives that might not align with pre-existing narratives. It’s about a rigorous commitment to truth, even when that truth is inconvenient, unpopular, or challenges the comfortable ideologies of the journalist or their audience. This self-awareness is critical because, as Bartlett implicitly suggests, the very act of selectively reporting based on one’s worldview can inadvertently contribute to the problem of distrust, as audiences perceive a lack of impartiality. He cites the BBC, a public broadcaster, as an example, suggesting they “should ensure they cover topics of interest to everyone in the UK even if they might be controversial to some.” This speaks to the broader responsibility of media outlets, especially those with public service mandates, to reflect the full spectrum of societal concerns and perspectives, even when those perspectives are divisive. By engaging with controversial topics thoughtfully and fairly, media outlets can, perhaps, begin to rebuild some of the lost trust and demonstrate a genuine commitment to informing, rather than simply confirming existing beliefs. In essence, Bartlett’s message is a call for humility, rigor, and a brave, uncomfortable objectivity in an increasingly subjective world.