/vt/txt- convergence : A Failed Social Experiment
Today, I would like to review the /vt/txt-
community — an underground subculture that has taken root in the deeper corners of 4ch and X. Although these two communities are distinct and seldom interact, being a member of both has allowed me to observe certain similarities between them. Admittedly, part of this perception stems from my own attempt to encourage convergence between the two — a social experiment that, as I will later explain, ultimately did not succeed.
Chapter 1: Let There Be Weebs
The origins of my involvement with the vt/-txt community can be traced back to my early participation in various online communities centered around Japanese popular culture, particularly anime and manga. Initially, my engagement was relatively simple: I sought spaces to discuss recent manga chapters and new anime episodes with like-minded enthusiasts. It was during this time that a friend introduced me first to Reddit, and later, to 4ch.
After spending time within both environments, I began to appreciate the stark contrast between the two platforms. Reddit, with its structured, upvote-driven format, often prioritized popularity over depth. In contrast, 4chan's more chaotic and anonymous nature fostered discussions that I found to be far more intellectually stimulating. Motivated by this realization, I eventually made the decision to permanently migrate from Reddit to 4ch.
On 4ch, the primary hub for anime and manga discussion is the /a/ board. However, I soon discovered a vast network of other boards dedicated to a wide range of interests beyond just anime and manga. One board that particularly captured my attention was /vt/ — the board dedicated to virtual YouTubers, or "vtubers." My growing interest in this space was catalyzed by a major event: the announcement that Hololive, a prominent Japanese vtuber agency, was establishing a new branch in my home country. This news generated significant buzz within the community, and I became curious to explore the phenomenon further.
The vtuber culture itself bears a surface-level resemblance to traditional anime. Vtubers are animated characters, voiced and operated in real-time by human performers, often through livestream platforms like YouTube. What differentiates vtubers from typical animated characters is the interactivity they offer: audiences can watch these characters live and, if fortunate, interact with them directly through livestream chats or social media mentions. For many anime enthusiasts — colloquially referred to as "weebs" — the opportunity to converse with and receive replies from an "anime girl" was a dream long considered unattainable. Vtubing technology effectively made this fantasy a reality.
Nevertheless, the content produced by vtubers diverges significantly from traditional anime formats. Unlike anime, which usually follows a structured, episodic narrative, vtuber streams are more akin to general YouTube streaming culture. Common formats include gaming streams, free talk sessions, karaoke performances, and spontaneous audience interactions. This shift in content style was not universally well-received within the broader anime community. Notably, tensions arose between members of /a/ and /vt/. Some /a/ users criticized vtubers, dismissing them as "just another category of YouTube streamer wearing an anime skin," thereby implying a perceived dilution of traditional anime culture.
Turning specifically to the /vt/ board itself, it is important to note that the intellectual depth I initially admired in 4chan's discussions extends into this space as well. Among the many topics debated within /vt/, one of the most persistent — and the one I found particularly engaging — revolves around the fundamental question: How can the vtubing scene and industry continue to thrive and evolve?
This question reflects a deeper concern within the community about the sustainability of vtubing as a cultural phenomenon, and it often leads to rich, critical discussions about market trends, audience expectations, and technological innovation.
Chapter 2: Data-Driven Decision Making in the Vtubing Ecosystem
An essential contribution made by the /vt/ community to the advancement of the vtubing industry lies in its emphasis on data-driven decision-making. Members of this community have embraced extensive data analytics as a central tool for understanding and influencing the vtubing ecosystem.
The scope of data collected is remarkably comprehensive. Metrics such as the number of likes per stream, concurrent viewer counts over time, subscriber growth rates, viewer retention during live broadcasts, Twitter follower statistics, and even the volume and frequency of monetary donations are meticulously gathered and analyzed. This vast array of information is often aggregated into large-scale dashboards, visually representing the performance of individual vtubers. These dashboards resemble the format of Formula 1 championship standings, ranking vtubers competitively based on key performance indicators.
Whenever a shift occurs in these rankings — whether a sudden rise or an unexpected decline — the community engages in thorough, almost forensic, discussions to diagnose the causes. Analyses delve into what strategies were effective and which missteps may have contributed to changes in performance, reflecting a level of scrutiny more often associated with professional marketing or sports analytics.
Each vtuber, naturally, has a dedicated fanbase, operating much like the passionate supporter bases of traditional football clubs. However, what is notable in this context is the fanbase’s openness to critical self-reflection. When their favored vtuber (or "oshi") experiences a decline in metrics, supporters do not simply defend them uncritically. Instead, they often participate in collective analysis, seeking to understand and address the underlying issues.
Building upon this empirical foundation, discussions within the /vt/ community often progress toward broader strategic questions: What kinds of content best enable vtubers to succeed? and What trends must be nurtured to ensure the long-term vitality of the vtubing industry? Best practices are rigorously analyzed and codified, while cautionary tales — disastrous case studies drawn from real events — are archived, forming a growing "grand library of lore," meticulously curated by dedicated archivists within the community.
Common conclusions have emerged from these discussions. For example, many members argue that gaming streams remain the most effective content type for vtubers. Such streams enable performers to roleplay as their characters dynamically, fostering interactions reminiscent of traditional anime narratives. Moreover, gaming streams often stimulate bursts of creative activity among fans, leading to the production of high-quality fan art and fan comics. These works, adapting vtuber antics into manga or animation formats, sometimes achieve a level of quality comparable to professional manga and anime productions.
Beyond this, gaming streams can offer unparalleled opportunities for audience engagement. Occasionally, lucky viewers are invited to participate directly in gameplay sessions alongside the vtuber, further reinforcing the fantasy of "talking to and interacting with anime characters" — a long-held dream for many fans of the medium.
In essence, this combination of live interaction, narrative spontaneity, and fan creativity has allowed vtubing to transcend the boundaries of traditional streaming and anime culture, forging a new hybrid form of entertainment.
Today, the /vt/ community continues to refine its understanding of the industry. Their ongoing discussions, grounded in a shared commitment to objective analysis rather than mere fandom allegiance, reflect an enduring effort to discover the "holy grail" — the optimal path toward a sustainable and prosperous future for vtubing as a whole.
Chapter 3: Autobase, Roll Out!
Shifting our focus away from the vtubing ecosystem, we now turn to a seemingly unrelated yet equally fascinating phenomenon: the rise of the "txt" subculture on X (formerly known as Twitter).
One of the most remarkable aspects of Twitter’s user culture throughout its history has been its tendency to generate new forms of interaction that extend far beyond the platform’s original technical design. These emergent behaviors often predate the formal implementation of features that are now taken for granted. For instance, before the retweet function was officially introduced, users had already developed a grassroots method of manually sharing others' content. This informal practice, commonly known as manual retweeting, involved quoting another user's post by embedding it within one’s own message, using a standardized syntax that evolved organically across the platform:
This community-driven adaptation, which emerged as early as the 2010s, exemplifies the creative ways in which users have historically pushed the boundaries of Twitter’s intended functionality. Importantly, this spirit of innovation did not diminish over time. Even into the 2020s, users continued to explore novel ways of leveraging the platform, leading to the development of new cultural practices. Among these, the rise of autobase accounts and the broader txt subculture stands out as a particularly significant evolution.
The autobase system operates through designated bot accounts managed by users running custom software. These bots accept direct messages (DMs) from individuals within the community. Upon receiving a message, the bot republishes the content as a public tweet while preserving the sender's anonymity. In this model, while Twitter already permitted a degree of pseudonymity (through the use of handles and aliases), autobase accounts introduced an additional layer of structural anonymity, separating the act of posting from any visible personal identity altogether.
Before the platform underwent major leadership changes under Elon Musk, the presence of such bots occupied a legal and regulatory grey area. Nevertheless, Twitter largely adopted a laissez-faire stance, allowing autobase accounts to operate freely. As a result, autobases proliferated across a wide variety of topics, interests, and niche communities, each fostering its own microculture.
In effect, what the collective Twitter user base achieved through autobase systems was the reinvention of the anonymous, interest-based internet forum, but embedded within the familiar environment of everyday Twitter interactions. By utilizing simple mechanisms — the direct message function and the "follow" button — users recreated many of the affordances of early internet communities: open discussion without personal attribution, rapid information sharing, and communal dialogue centered around shared interests rather than individual identities.
Thus, after initially inventing manual retweeting practices from scratch, Twitter's grassroots user culture once again demonstrated its remarkable capacity for self-organization and innovation. By repurposing basic platform tools, users effectively expanded the expressive potential of Twitter far beyond its original design, creating vibrant new spaces for collective interaction.
Chapter 4: The Genocide
A significant turning point occurred with the mass proliferation of autobase accounts under the collective branding of "txt." Initially, this movement was driven by the success and popularity of specialized autobases dedicated to specific topics. Examples include @txtdariotomotif ("text from the automotive world"), which aggregated user-submitted messages from enthusiasts interested in cars, motorcycles, and related subjects. Similar models quickly emerged across a wide range of interests: @txtdaribook (literature), @txtdarilaw (legal discourse), and many others, each serving as a communal node for like-minded individuals.
However, this thematic specialization was soon complemented—and in some respects overwhelmed—by a wave of regional autobases. Innovators within the community began to create txt accounts based not on thematic interest but on geographical identity. New accounts such as @txtdarijakarta, @txtdaribandung, and @txtdarisurabaya appeared, each claiming a major Indonesian city as its constituency. Without any formal regulation regarding the minimum size or significance of a geographic area, the proliferation of regional autobases accelerated rapidly. Autobase accounts were founded for provinces, cities, towns, villages, residential neighborhoods, and even individual streets. In theory, any place name—no matter how obscure—could serve as the basis for a new txt account.
This geographical turn introduced a second layer of communal organization: not only were users interacting anonymously through shared interest groups, but they were now also forming anonymous, location-based communities, connecting users by birthplace, residence, or personal affiliation with a given area. This innovation briefly revitalized a deeper sense of digital belonging, offering users an unprecedented ability to express localized identity within the broader anonymity of the platform.
However, this flourishing ecosystem would prove to be short-lived.
The acquisition of Twitter by Elon Musk marked a dramatic shift in platform governance. Among the new leadership's priorities was a crackdown on automated accounts ("bots"), perceived as undermining the platform's credibility and performance. Unfortunately, autobase bots, despite their largely benign and community-focused purpose, were caught in this sweeping purge.
What followed can only be described as the genocide of the autobase culture. In a matter of months, vast numbers of autobase accounts were banned, dismantled, or rendered inactive. The thriving txt networks, which had nurtured countless micro-communities, were systematically dismantled. The creative and communal energy that had once animated this space was abruptly extinguished. For many users, "fun" — as it had been known — was officially over.
Yet, amid the devastation, pockets of resistance emerged. Certain administrators of large autobase accounts, recognizing the existential threat, acted swiftly. They deactivated automated systems and transitioned to manual operations. Instead of bots processing direct messages and posting anonymously, a small army of human volunteers painstakingly read incoming messages and posted them individually, by hand. This labor-intensive process was sustained solely by the dedication of administrators and their commitment to preserving their communities against overwhelming odds.
Ultimately, however, even these heroic efforts proved unsustainable. The sheer volume of submissions, combined with the thankless nature of the task and the diminishing user base, led to the gradual collapse of manual autobase operations as well. Exhausted and demoralized, the volunteers were forced to concede defeat.
Thus, a once-thriving digital subculture, born out of creative adaptation and collective spirit, was effectively erased by broader shifts in platform governance and technical policy. What had once symbolized the capacity of users to remake social media spaces according to their own desires and identities was now relegated to memory.
In the end, it was over.
Chapter 5: Where All Miracles Begin — And Nightmares Too
Amidst the ashes of a devastated culture, where once-vibrant autobase communities had been razed by sweeping policy changes, an unexpected flicker of hope seemed to emerge.
Perhaps, against all odds, not everything was lost.
It is true that the traditional operations of autobases—based on anonymous user submissions relayed through automated processes—had been rendered obsolete. It is equally true that the desperate attempts at manual intervention had collapsed under the sheer weight of logistical impossibility. Yet, from the ruins, a new, unanticipated phenomenon began to form among the survivors of the Great Purge.
Particularly among the former administrators of the most populous autobase accounts—those connected to major metropolitan regions—a new strategy was devised. These accounts had already amassed enormous follower bases, their size often directly correlated with the actual population of the cities and provinces they represented. Though stripped of their original functionality, the dormant power of these networks remained, waiting to be reawakened.
The pivot they chose was radical.
Rather than continue as passive conduits for anonymous voices, the ex-autobase accounts chose to become voices themselves. They abandoned the autobase model and instead adopted personal agency, personifying the place names they bore. A handle such as @txtdarijakarta ("text from Jakarta") no longer relayed others’ thoughts; it now spoke as Jakarta itself — a digital avatar of the city’s will.
This transformation marked a profound shift. These accounts were no longer mere aggregators; they had become anthropomorphized representations of the cities, districts, and neighborhoods they named. Their tweets, authored independently by the account holders, projected a simulacrum of the places they claimed to embody. Astonishingly, many amassed influence that surpassed official city government accounts, outstripped local political leaders' outreach, and even overshadowed mainstream media outlets.
A new sociopolitical architecture, organic and unofficial, was forming in real time.
Moreover, the original logic of txt proliferation — the absence of any meaningful threshold for geographic scale — meant that this phenomenon extended from the provincial level down to the smallest street.
Thus, a hierarchical shadow structure emerged:
Provincial-level accounts at the apex,
City-level accounts subordinate to them,
District and neighborhood accounts at the base.
Each node in this improvised system had real followers, real reach, and real persuasive power.
Each node tweeted independently, interacted horizontally and vertically with others, and shaped public narratives outside the control of traditional institutions.
In short, the accounts had become the new voice of the people—but an unregulated, volatile, and deeply unpredictable one.
Beneath the surface of apparent democratization lurked a dark undercurrent. With a single tweet, an ex-autobase operator could rally thousands — perhaps tens of thousands — to physical action. They could incite demonstrations, protests, occupations of legislative buildings. They could — whether intentionally or recklessly — trigger violence against individuals or institutions simply by directing collective rage through their platform.
The social contract that once held delicate local political balances together now faced constant, invisible threat. No election, no policy, no traditional authority could match the raw, viral mobilization potential that these new txt-avatars commanded.
Justice, in this landscape, became a sloppily defined, crowd-sourced notion, fueled more by emotional momentum than by deliberation.
Reputations were destroyed overnight.
Public facilities were burned in sudden, leaderless riots.
Local leaders, once comfortably ensconced in their positions, now lived in fear of the next viral call to action—a call that could emerge without warning, without accountability, from an account they could neither negotiate with nor control.
Thus, what began as a fragile miracle—an unexpected survival of community spirit amid systemic destruction—morphed rapidly into a dark dystopia.
The same platforms that once symbolized creative resilience and democratic expression now threatened to devour the very societies they emerged from.
And so, to ask why this future seemed to spiral into bleakness is to misunderstand its nature.
It was never a sudden descent.
It was a continuation of the same forces that had been there all along—only now, unbound.
It is what it is.
Chapter 6: The Graduations — A Prelude to Collapse
At the very moment when I found myself transfixed by the emergent, almost terrifying power quietly pulsing across my timeline, a simple, almost melancholic tweet appeared.
A "white flag" raised not in grand defiance, but in quiet resignation.
"Does anyone want to take over this account?"
It was a message from one of the local txt-operators in my area—brief, unadorned, and devastatingly heavy in its implications.
The administrators had had enough.
Fed up with the growing dangers of their position, exhausted by the thankless labor, and unwilling to bear further responsibility, they chose to relinquish their hold over the vast network they had inadvertently helped build. The immense power imbued in these accounts was to be handed, not through deliberation or succession, but to whichever stranger was willing to shoulder the burden.
In a moment of impulsive idealism, I seized the opportunity.
I volunteered to take the helm—fueled by a fragile, perhaps naïve ambition to redirect this nationwide txt-movement toward something better, something more constructive, something, at last, good.
What followed was a year of social experimentation, a desperate attempt to reimagine the txt-ecosystem through the lens of earlier wisdom I had gathered elsewhere—specifically from my time observing /vt/.
For at their core, the structural similarities between the /vt/ subculture and the txt- movement were impossible to ignore.
In both worlds:
A persona was adopted, virtual yet commanding.
A cult-like following gathered, offering loyalty not to the person behind the screen, but to the mask they wore.
Content was created, interaction flourished, and complex parasocial relationships emerged. One wore the skin of an anime girl.
The other, the mask of a place name.
Thus, with the best practices of /vt/ in mind, built upon the foundation of rigorous data-driven decision making, I sought to reform and rejuvenate the txt-ecosystem.
It was an unmitigated failure.
After one exhausting year, I was forced to confront the inevitable.
The system was too far gone; the rot too deep.
There was no saving it from within.
And so, following the cycle as prescribed in the virtual world I had modeled so closely, I performed the final, inevitable rite of passage:
Graduation.
Quietly, almost anonymously, I announced the retirement of my operated txt-account.
There was no celebration, no ceremony, no triumphant farewell—only a muted departure into the endless noise of the timeline.
Mission failed, almost successfully.
Looking back, the parallels between my txt-graduation and the virtual graduations of countless vtubers seemed almost cruelly ironic. I had followed the model too faithfully. I had forgotten one of its most tragic lessons:
Every virtual existence is, by its nature, finite.
The fundamental error lay not merely in execution, but in assumption.
It is a grave mistake to believe that an individual, however motivated, can shift an entire ecosystem alone.
Especially when that ecosystem—already fragile, already compromised—judges individuals not on their own merits, but through the collective reputation of the whole.
Consider the analogy : How does one market a single vtuber to an audience entirely unfamiliar with anime culture?
The audience does not evaluate the vtuber on their personal charm, or creativity, or content.
Instead, they first judge the entire anime/manga community—and all its accumulated negative stereotypes—before even giving the individual a chance.
The individual inherits, involuntarily and unavoidably, the sins of the community.
The same dynamic played out in the txt-subculture. All the misdeeds, missteps, and controversies committed by countless unrelated txt-accounts contaminated the brand as a whole. And no matter how earnestly I tried to distance my account from the others, the taint remained. One could not escape the generalization. One could not be judged on one's own.
Worse still, the consequences were no longer merely reputational—they were physical, existential.
In a world where power and danger lived one tweet away, where a careless mention could summon local authorities or worse, maintaining a txt-account had become a genuine threat to one's livelihood—and perhaps even one's safety.
The warning signs had been there all along:
Those who live by the sword shall die by the sword.
And those who dare to challenge local powers—one impulsive tweet at a time—must be prepared to be crushed by them, in turn.
Ultimately, the brand was unsalvageable.
And I, like so many others before me, fled.
Graduation was not a choice—it was survival.
In that departure, in that defeat, a bitter realization took hold:
Perhaps this is why so many of my favorite vtubers have been mass graduating as well.
Perhaps, across entirely different ecosystems, the conditions are hauntingly similar: A crumbling foundation, rotting from within. An impossible burden placed on individual shoulders. An inevitable collapse no amount of data, no amount of careful planning, no amount of community spirit can avert.
Not even the finest data-driven strategies distilled from the scholarly heights of /vt/ could save a dying world.
Some ecosystems are simply too broken to heal.
And some miracles, no matter how beautifully they begin, are destined only to end in silence.
Chapter 7: Epilogue — Ashes and Seeds
Despite the numerous failures, the bitter defeats, and the slow collapse of the dreams that once seemed so vivid, a part of me still dares to hope.
Hope that the /vt/ and txt- subcultures, for all their cracks and scars, may yet find a way to flourish again — perhaps not today, nor tomorrow, but someday, under kinder skies.
The social experiment I undertook may have ended in ruin, yet even from failure comes value.
In the ashes of what was lost, I now hold something far rarer than fleeting success:
Experience.
Hard-earned, painfully learned, but invaluable all the same.
There remain ideas—concepts and strategies—that have yet to see the light of day.
Innovations that could not yet find their moment, trapped like seeds waiting for the right season.
Sometimes, a brilliant invention can be born into the wrong era, too early for the world to accept or understand it.
Wisdom lies not only in creating, but also in waiting: in recognizing when the zeitgeist is ready to embrace the new.
Thus, I resist the urge to despair completely.
The world moves in cycles; the tides of culture ebb and flow with time.
New eras bring new possibilities—and with them, perhaps, the right conditions for ideas once discarded to take root and bloom.
What has been built once can be built again.
What has fallen can, in some form, rise anew.
Even in defeat, there is dignity in perseverance.
Even in failure, there is preparation for future triumphs.
And so, though I lay this chapter to rest, I do so not with bitterness, but with a quiet, stubborn optimism.
The experiment has ended—for now.
But the journey of learning, adapting, and daring to try again continues.
If I were to assign a final score to this endeavor—not purely by results, but by the spirit of the attempt—it would be this:
88/100.
Good Game.
The match may be over.
But the player remains.
And the game, always, goes on.