We Might All Be Silver Tier Writers
In my previous entry, I mentioned cross-posting my writing to a Korean platform called Brunch. Just as I had deployed my first few articles, an unfamiliar notification popped up on my smartphone screen signaling a new "cheer" comment. I doubted my eyes for a moment because I only had a few articles published and formal monetization features were not even activated yet. Usually, a reader's behavioral pattern is limited to leaving a free like or pressing the follow button if they are slightly more interested.
This was different because it was not just simple text. It was actual monetary value. Although the sample size was merely one, the weight of that single data point existed on a completely different dimension from hundreds of likes. A complete stranger had opened their wallet to pay a physical cost for content they could have easily consumed for free. While a typical writer might end the day with emotional fulfillment, my engineer curiosity reared its head as that emotion settled down. I decided to debug this unexpected event to analyze it from the perspective of a system.
From a strict engineering standpoint, text is the most disadvantaged media format in the modern era. Platforms like YouTube, TikTok, or Instagram utilize flashy video editing, eye-catching thumbnails, and perfectly timed background music. They employ every sensory hook imaginable to capture the brain and retain the user. Writing has none of that. There is no flashy technology or majestic sound. There is only the bare data of black characters on a white background. You cannot mask a lack of substance with high-definition rhetorical makeup. If the content is boring or lacks information, the reader hits the back button in less than a second.
That is exactly why writing is difficult. It does not stimulate the senses but instead serves as a primitive yet intuitive information transfer protocol designed to inject an author’s thoughts straight into a reader’s brain. Paradoxically, this is also why the potential of text is explosive. Persuading someone to open their wallet using only logic and syntax achieves a pure and irreplaceable form of content leverage.
To win this high-difficulty game, we first need to refactor a piece of legacy code wrongly hardwired into our brains. This is the stereotype that art and money are mutually incompatible. We falsely assumed that chasing money corrupts the soul and that pursuing art equals nobility, poverty, and uncompromising purity. However, that code is deprecated. In the creator era of 2026, pure creations like text, photography, and music are the most powerful assets. Capital has begun to covet art, and the market rules have been completely rewritten.
This leads us to a very interesting formula. If you want to write for a living and set your objective function to making money, you must input overwhelming quality. The desire to make money aligns perfectly with the high-level task of moving the hearts of others. We have entered an era where capitalism essentially enforces quality control on art.
Are the vast majority of writers who fail to generate revenue simply failed instances? If you parse the data using a strict binary of "revenue being true or false," perhaps you could say so. But the system is never that simple. In the ecosystem of League of Legends, the pro gamers in the Challenger tier earn the prize money even though they make up less than 0.01 percent of the user base. This does not mean the gameplay of millions in the lower tiers is meaningless data garbage. On the battlefield of online writing, other currencies circulate besides money, such as likes, comments, and shares. These metrics function exactly like the Match Making Rating in a game to represent your true combat skill.
While money is the prize pool for top-ranked professionals, likes and comments are the real-time rank points measuring the power of my writing. A reader clicking that heart icon is a vote showing they have been persuaded by my logic. We are not fighting a binary battle over revenue. We are participating in a massive ranked game where every participant verifies their standing through social empathy.
At this point, I had to be brutally honest with myself. The moment I thought of the term "ranked game," my developer persona overlapped with my identity as a musician. I still occasionally release new tracks, and the monthly settlements for streaming royalties reliably land in my bank account. The amount is negligible compared to my main income. To be even more honest, the problem is not the low revenue but the high expenditure. Because I have hoarded instruments and high-end gear over the years, my music business is in a disastrous deficit. Gear acquisition syndrome is a terminal illness.
The real issue was never the money. Whenever I uploaded my music to YouTube, I meticulously tweaked the settings to disable comments and hide the like counts. I rationalized this behavior by claiming I did not want to waste emotional energy on internet trolls. I pretended I was simply blocking out noise to present "pure" music. Looking back objectively, it was actually a profound fear of evaluation. I was terrified of my music facing the market’s cold scorecard. I systematically cut the feedback loop simply because I was scared of seeing zero comments or getting a dislike. I blamed structural problems instead of my own skills. I was a coward who tore up the placement test paper and ran away because I could not bear to see my true tier confirmed as Silver or Bronze.
Now I stand before a new game called writing. Will I run away using the exact same logic? Technically, I could just disable the comments again. But doing so in this ecosystem is equivalent to a fifteen-minute quick surrender. Closing the comment section means permanently forfeiting any algorithmic benefits and the chance to connect. Writing completely alone while rejecting both revenue and traffic expansion is a "troll" move no different from queuing up for a ranked game and immediately going AFK.
Ultimately, I had to demolish my own bunker and accept that the report card for my writing is destined to be public. A cold sweat runs down my back because there is nowhere left to hide. Yet, we must learn wisdom from great gamers. They have embodied a single undeniable truth through playing thousands of matches. This is the Law of Large Numbers.
We often mistakenly believe our tier will rise if we just play one match well or if one article goes viral. Experienced gamers know better. As the sample size increases, beginner’s luck fades away and the data regresses to the mean without fail. Writing every single day will not create a miracle where my tier graph points infinitely upward. As the articles pile up, my rank will simply consolidate into the exact tier that corresponds to my true skill level.
Does that mean this is a despairing situation? Look at the countless players who stay stuck in the Silver or Gold tiers for years. They will never become Faker, yet they log in every night to enjoy the game anyway. Raising their tier is not their only objective. The gameplay itself is genuinely fun.
Writing is exactly the same. Those destined to become Challengers and make money will do so. Those destined to earn honor in Diamond will achieve it. People like me who write for self-satisfaction might stay in Silver forever. My writing might even remain a lifelong financial deficit just like my music. I will inevitably keep upgrading to the latest MacBook to ensure a smooth environment. But now I know the reason I write consistently. It is not for an unconditional ascent. It is to find my proper and honest place in this system.
It truly does not matter if that place is tucked away in a quiet corner of the Silver division. Whatever price tag is attached to my writing, I will face the open comment section and keep playing this game without stopping. Objectively verifying one’s position without putting down the pen is true dignity. Joyfully queuing up for the next match is the pride of a Silver tier writer.
I stand tall and unintimidated before the ruthless scorecard of capitalism.