Let’s be honest: in the digital age, feelings often outrank facts. A story that triggers anger, fear, or sympathy spreads faster, lingers longer, and feels more true than a carefully worded statement full of evidence. This is especially true during online scandals, when official information is incomplete or untrusted. Misinformation, in this context, is not just a lie circulating on the internet. It is a participatory process. Audiences do not simply absorb rumors; they shape them, repeat them, add new details, and transform them into shared emotional realities. Researchers call this participatory misinformation, and it is driven by emotional resonance—the persuasive power of affective appeals that shape how people interpret events. To see it in action, consider the 2024 dispute between HYBE, the South Korean entertainment giant behind BTS, and Min Hee-jin, the former CEO of ADOR and the creative mind behind NewJeans. When HYBE accused Min of plotting to take over ADOR, public opinion turned violently against her. She was cast as a traitor who had bitten the hand that fed her. Then, on April 25, 2024, she held a two-hour press conference that changed everything. She appeared exhausted, cried on camera, cursed at executives, and swore she was only trying to protect NewJeans. Within days, online sentiment had flipped so dramatically that HYBE’s stock lost about five percent of its value—roughly 437.4 billion Korean won, or $328 million. Comment sections that had called Min a schemer began calling her a hero. None of this required new facts. It required emotional resonance. This case reveals how, in moments of uncertainty, people become co-authors of the stories they believe, and why a single vulnerable performance can outweigh a mountain of corporate messaging. The researchers who studied this controversy were not interested in deciding who was right. They wanted to understand why the public changed its mind so quickly, and what that says about truth in digital spaces.
Before Min ever reached the microphone, the digital court of opinion had already convicted her. In the days immediately following HYBE’s announcement, sentiment in YouTube comments was overwhelmingly hostile. A systematic analysis of 36,297 comments from the period found that 82 percent of sampled comments before the press conference were negative, and nearly two-thirds of that negativity was aimed directly at Min herself. The accusations were visceral: she was a traitor, a backstabber, an ambitious executive who had exploited HYBE’s support and stolen NewJeans for her own glory. These judgments were rarely based on hard evidence. Instead, commenters pointed to their own impressions of her past behavior or her perceived ambition. Phrases like “I knew it!” captured a mood that was emotionally satisfying but factually thin. Then came the press conference. Min appeared not as a polished CEO but as a woman visibly at the end of her rope. She denied the takeover plot, said she was “only here to protect NewJeans,” and viciously attacked the male executives she felt were trying to destroy her. The contrast was striking. By the following weeks, negative comments had fallen to about 62 percent, positive comments had nearly doubled, and, crucially, only about 25 percent of the remaining negative comments focused on Min. The negativity now shifted to HYBE, which was accused of bullying, manipulation, and destroying art. Meanwhile, 87 percent of positive comments explicitly supported Min. She was no longer a schemer; she was “Mom of NewJeans,” a “true artist,” a “visionary,” a woman “fighting alone against a corrupted system.” One comment even called her press conference “GOAT-level.” All of this happened without any new verified facts. What changed was the emotional frame. The comment sections were not simply reporting reactions; they were building a new version of events. This transformation was so complete that it affected not only conversations but the company’s bottom line.
Why did Min’s emotional performance carry so much weight? The comments themselves point to four distinct but connected reasons. The first is authenticity. Viewers saw her tears, her tired face, and her unpolished anger as signs that she was telling the truth. One commenter wrote, “Even if this was a performance, you can’t fake that level of naturalness.” In a world of carefully managed public images, vulnerability has become a powerful proxy for sincerity. The second reason was that Min came across as both emotional and logical. Although the press conference was dramatic, many commenters noted that she actually laid out her defense in a coherent way. “She crushed them with facts, not emotions,” one person said, while another argued that the media had unfairly reduced the event to crying and ranting. This combination of heart and reason made her seem credible. The third theme was courage. By standing up to HYBE, a massive corporation, Min appeared to be fighting a lonely battle against institutional power. Commenters called her “the egg crushing the rock” and marveled at her willingness to confront the head of the parent company. Whether or not her risk was real, the perception of bravery shaped the narrative. The fourth theme was artistic integrity. Min talked about her passion for NewJeans and her tireless creative work. She referenced living on delivery food and working around the clock, images that made her seem like an overworked artist rather than a corporate executive. Audiences connected with that. They saw her as someone defending creativity against commercial exploitation. These four themes—authenticity, logic, courage, and artistic passion—helped Min win the public’s heart. Meanwhile, HYBE relied on official statements and factual responses. It might have had the more accurate legal position, but it lacked the emotional connection that makes people believe. This case extends what researchers have long known about political and crisis communication: emotional appeals persuade. In popular culture, too, perceived authenticity can shift public opinion faster than evidence.
Once the emotional narrative turned, it did more than change opinions; it sparked a wave of collective storytelling. In the absence of clear answers, online audiences began constructing conspiracy theories to make sense of the confusion. The most prominent was the claim that HYBE was connected to Dahn World, a religious movement in South Korea. Before the press conference, this idea was almost nonexistent. Afterward, it appeared in roughly 9.9 percent of sampled comments. People searched for clues in NewJeans’ choreography, in the visual style of music videos, in hand gestures, and in corporate branding. They claimed to see religious symbols hidden in plain sight. Another major theory involved ILLIT, a rookie girl group under HYBE, accused of copying NewJeans. Commenters created side-by-side comparisons of outfits, songs, and choreography, treating every similarity as evidence of plagiarism. There were also claims about hidden political motives and dark conspiracies involving HYBE’s chairman, Bang Si-hyuk. None of these theories had solid verification. But they spread because they filled an emotional and cognitive gap—the gap between what people wanted to believe and what the institutions were telling them. This is exactly how participatory misinformation works. Audiences do not passively consume a rumor; they actively co-create it. They add new details, connect unrelated dots, and repeat the story until it feels like fact. In fan communities, emotional investment and shared identity intensify this process. The story of the Dahn World theory is a reminder that in times of institutional distrust, anything can become a clue. When people lack access to the full truth, they fill the gaps with imagination. The influence of these speculations went beyond YouTube. Google Trends data showed a sharp spike in searches for “Dahn World” in South Korea after the press conference, with related queries about HYBE, Bang Si-hyuk, NewJeans, and ILLIT. What began in comment sections quickly leaked into mainstream public conversation, proving that these spaces are not just mirrors of public opinion but engines that generate it.
To understand these dynamics, the researchers did something that seems simple but is actually difficult: they read what people wrote. Automated sentiment tools, which count words as positive or negative, constantly missed the sarcasm, indirect criticism, and emotionally coded language that filled the comment sections. So the researchers collected 36,297 YouTube comments from Korean-language videos covering the dispute between April 22 and May 16, 2024, and then randomly sampled about fifty comments per day, producing a final set of 1,130 comments for close reading. Using qualitative coding, they categorized each comment for general sentiment, for the target of that sentiment, and for the justifications people offered. Three coders worked together, using a shared codebook and multiple rounds of discussion, and reached a 95.2 percent consistency rate. This human approach captured nuance that algorithms miss. YouTube was chosen because it was central to distributing key content, including the full press conference, and because platforms like X and TikTok were less suitable for capturing this particular conversation. The analysis also revealed the role of the comment section as an active participant in shaping the story. Comments that supported Min or attacked HYBE tended to receive more likes and replies, which pushed them higher in ranking and made them more visible. The more visible they became, the more they appeared to represent popular opinion. This created an emotional echo chamber where the dominant narrative reinforced itself. The researchers also acknowledged limitations: their interpretation was subjective, though disciplined; they focused on comment-level patterns rather than user histories; and they looked only at the early phase of an ongoing battle. Even so, the patterns were strong enough to draw meaningful conclusions. It is important to remember that the study is a snapshot of an unfolding event, but the underlying pattern remains clear: in online environments, emotion travels fast, and once a narrative gains emotional momentum, it is very hard to stop.
What does this mean for the rest of us? First, it means entertainment scandals are no longer just entertainment. They are high-stakes cultural events with real economic consequences. The same emotional dynamics that shape politics and crisis communication also shape pop culture, and public opinion about celebrities can move billions of dollars in market value. Second, it means that facts alone are not enough. Institutions that respond to accusations with dry, legalistic statements are at a disadvantage in a world where people trust sincerity more than corporate polish. Public relations professionals need to think about tone, delivery, and perceived vulnerability. They need to address uncertainty quickly, before speculative stories fill the vacuum. Third, platform designers have a role to play. Features that encourage pause or context during high-intensity moments might help users separate emotions from evidence. Educators, too, can teach people to recognize emotionally viral content and to ask why a story feels true, not just whether it is true. The controversy also shows something deeper about contested truth. When two powerful parties offer conflicting stories, audiences are left to judge who to believe. In that vacuum, perceived sincerity becomes a substitute for evidence. Min’s tears and anger were treated as proof; HYBE’s polished statements were treated as suspicious. This is how misinformation thrives—not because people are foolish, but because uncertainty is uncomfortable, and emotional stories offer relief. For every person who shared a theory, there was a reason they felt compelled—not just to know, but to feel in control. Digital platforms weaponize that need. The larger lesson is philosophical. The HYBE–Min Hee-jin controversy shows that misinformation is not simply a disease spreading through social networks. It is a participatory process, driven by human beings who want to make sense of confusing situations. In the absence of clear answers, people use emotional cues as evidence. They construct narratives that feel true, and they share those narratives with others. We like to believe that truth wins in the end, but in a world where everyone is an author and every comment is a contribution, the most emotionally compelling story often wins the moment. The challenge is finding ways to make truth more compelling than feeling.