There is no question that many Australians have found life harder in recent years. Housing costs have risen. Groceries cost more. Power bills are higher. Traffic is worse. Governments, including the current Labor government, bear responsibility for some of these pressures. And whilst many refute this, global upheavals do impact this.
But there is another question worth asking.
Is life as catastrophic as some would have us believe?
A great deal of modern political discourse depends on convincing people that society is permanently on the brink of collapse. Every inconvenience becomes a crisis. Every disagreement becomes an existential threat. Every policy failure becomes evidence that the country is broken beyond repair. You only have to consider the years of catastrophic climate change predictions to see this. But behind every single one of these narratives there is a motive. Someone benefits, the question is who?
This is where another dynamic comes in: the way truth itself is often subordinated to narrative. The old saying that “never let the truth get in the way of a good story” is not just a cynical quip, it is a live operating principle in much of modern discourse. But there is a nuance often missed. It is not always that the truth is actively rejected. More often, it is reshaped, simplified, or selectively presented so that it fits the story people want to tell. A complex reality is compressed into something emotionally satisfying, even if it loses accuracy in the process.
This is not to say the problems are not real. They are.
Immigration is too high. Housing affordability is a genuine crisis. Cost-of-living pressures are biting. Infrastructure in many places has failed to keep pace with population growth. These are legitimate concerns that deserve serious discussion.
Yet there is a difference between acknowledging a problem and convincing people that catastrophe is around every corner.
Most Australians are still housed. They may be struggling with a mortgage or rent, but they have a roof over their heads. The people who should command our greatest attention are often those who do not. The homeless. The vulnerable. The people sleeping in cars, couch surfing, or living in temporary accommodation. Yet they are frequently lost amidst the noise of political outrage. Few even acknowledge this is a problem.
Most Australians still manage to put food on the table. They may be making sacrifices, postponing purchases or feeling financially squeezed. Yet the people who cannot afford basic necessities often receive far less attention than those competing to express the loudest grievances.
Traffic is worse. Congestion is real. Commutes are longer. But most people still get from A to B. The people who cannot—whether through disadvantage, disability or lack of transport options—rarely become the focus of public debate.
The loudest conversations are not always about those suffering the greatest hardship.
This raises an uncomfortable question.
Who benefits from keeping us angry?
The obvious answer is social media. Anger drives engagement. Engagement drives advertising revenue. The more outraged we become, the longer we stay online.
But the problem runs much deeper than social media algorithms.
Traditional media has its own algorithms, even if they are human rather than digital. Editors choose headlines. Producers choose stories. Talkback hosts choose callers. Television panels choose guests. Columnists choose frames through which events are interpreted.
The stories most likely to generate fear, outrage and tribal conflict are often the stories most likely to be promoted.
Talkback radio rarely selects callers who say, “Things are difficult, but let’s have a nuanced discussion about policy trade-offs.” It selects callers who are angry, frustrated and emotional because that makes compelling radio.
Opinion writers are often rewarded not for being balanced but for being memorable. Politicians are rewarded not for calming tensions but for mobilising supporters. Activists are rewarded not for moderation but for urgency.
An entire ecosystem exists that profits from our attention, and anger is one of the most effective ways to capture it.
The problem is not that people are angry. Sometimes they should be.
The problem is that outrage has become an industry. The incentives are obvious: anger attracts attention, attention attracts money, and money rewards those who keep the outrage machine running.
Too often, the people most invested in keeping us angry are the people least interested in solving the problems they describe. Outrage is easier to monetise than solutions. Fear is easier to sell than perspective.
This creates a subtle distortion. We begin to mistake the loudest voices for the most important voices. We begin to believe that what dominates our screens reflects the full reality of our communities.
It does not.
Most Australians are not spending every waking hour in political combat. Most are raising families, caring for ageing parents, helping neighbours, volunteering in local organisations, running small businesses and getting on with life.
The reality of Australia is often far less dramatic than the reality presented to us.
The greatest casualty of this outrage economy may be perspective itself.
We are encouraged to choose sides. To be perpetually offended. To view those who disagree with us not as fellow citizens but as enemies. We are told that everything is urgent, everything is a crisis and everything is a battle.
But perhaps the real battle is not between left and right, Labor and Liberal, progressive and conservative.
Perhaps the real battle is the war of self.
The struggle to resist manipulation. The struggle to distinguish genuine concern from manufactured outrage. The struggle to see reality as it is rather than as others need it to appear.
Because if someone can keep you permanently angry, they can usually keep you from asking the most important question of all:
Who benefits from your anger? What part of the story are they not telling you? And what questions would you ask if you weren’t angry?
