Food did not become entertainment because people stopped caring about cooking.
It became entertainment because the systems surrounding food stopped valuing understanding.
For most of its history, culinary knowledge moved slowly. Recipes were transmitted through apprenticeship, repetition, and print. They assumed commitment. A cookbook did not compete for attention; it waited for it. The reader entered willingly, often with intent to cook, to learn, to improve. Food media operated under the assumption that effort was part of the contract.
That contract no longer exists.
The shift did not begin in kitchens. It began in platforms.
Digital platforms are built to maximize attention, not comprehension. Their logic is simple: what holds the eye spreads, what spreads gets rewarded, and what gets rewarded gets copied. Food — inherently visual, tactile, and emotionally charged — adapted quickly. A bubbling sauce, a knife cutting through crisp skin, molten cheese stretching just long enough to loop. These moments translate instantly. They require no context, no explanation, no patience.
What cannot be seen — judgment, restraint, sequencing, error correction — does not.
As platforms optimized for speed, food content optimized alongside them. Instruction gave way to sensation. Recipes were compressed into highlights. Processes were flattened into spectacle. What once required pages of explanation was reduced to seconds of visual shorthand. Not because creators lacked skill, but because skill was no longer the currency being traded.
Audience behavior reinforced the shift. As feeds became endless, attention spans shortened. Viewers stopped arriving with intent and started arriving by accident. They were not looking to learn; they were scrolling to feel something. Pleasure replaced mastery as the primary goal. Surprise replaced understanding. Food content responded accordingly.
This changed the role of the creator. The cook was no longer a teacher but a performer. The recipe was no longer a system but a prop. The kitchen became a stage designed for visibility, not repeatability. Success was measured in views, not outcomes. A recipe that looked good but failed silently in thousands of homes still counted as a win if it performed online.
This is where the first real damage occurred.
When food content is optimized for entertainment, failure becomes invisible. There is no feedback loop. The creator does not see the dish collapse in another kitchen. They do not hear the confusion at step four. They do not taste the imbalance created by a substitution they encouraged but never tested. The platform rewards appearance, not performance. Over time, this erodes standards — not maliciously, but structurally.
Visual culture accelerated the problem. Photography and video became the primary arbiters of credibility. A dish that photographs well is assumed to be good. A creator with strong visuals is assumed to be skilled. Technique, testing, and understanding retreat behind aesthetics. The camera does not capture texture accurately. It cannot convey seasoning. It flattens smell, heat, resistance, timing. Yet viewers are trained to trust what they see.
This creates a dangerous illusion: that cooking is primarily about appearance.
At the same time, commercial pressures intensified. Brands entered the space not to teach, but to associate. Recipes became vehicles for products. Content calendars replaced editorial judgment. Speed mattered more than depth. Volume mattered more than rigor. Food media, once anchored in authority, began behaving like advertising with a culinary accent.
The language changed too. “Easy.” “Quick.” “Foolproof.” These words signal accessibility, but often mask omission. Complexity is edited out to preserve flow. Decisions are hidden to avoid intimidation. The reader is reassured rather than equipped. When the dish fails, the cook feels inadequate — not realizing the recipe was never designed to survive real conditions.
Entertainment thrives on certainty. Craft lives in ambiguity.
There is also a psychological component that cannot be ignored. Entertainment offers immediate reward. Watching food content triggers desire, comfort, nostalgia. It provides a sense of participation without risk. Learning, by contrast, requires friction. It demands attention, patience, and tolerance for uncertainty. In an overstimulated environment, friction is avoided. Content adapts to survive.
Food content did not choose entertainment. Entertainment chose food.
But something essential was lost in the process: accountability.
A recipe written as entertainment is not accountable to the reader’s outcome. A recipe written as craft is. One exists to be consumed; the other exists to be used. One ends at the screen; the other continues in the kitchen. When these purposes are confused, frustration follows.
This is why so many people say they “can’t cook” despite consuming endless food content. They are saturated with imagery but starved of instruction. They know what food should look like, but not how to get there. The knowledge gap is disguised as inspiration.
The tragedy is that audiences are not incapable of depth. They are simply rarely offered it. When food content slows down, explains itself, admits complexity, and respects the reader’s intelligence, engagement changes. It becomes quieter, more deliberate. Fewer people respond — but those who do stay longer. They return. They trust.
This is where food content can reclaim its seriousness.
Not by rejecting visuals entirely, but by refusing to let visuals lead. Not by shaming entertainment, but by drawing a clear line between performance and practice. Not by simplifying endlessly, but by locating complexity and naming it.
Food content became entertainment because systems rewarded spectacle over substance. But systems can be resisted. Editors can choose rigor. Creators can choose restraint. Platforms can be used without being obeyed.
The future of serious food media will not belong to the loudest voices or the most polished images. It will belong to those willing to slow the pace, reintroduce explanation, and accept that good work does not need to seduce immediately.
Entertainment fades.
Understanding accumulates.
And food, at its core, deserves to be understood.
© 2025 Deborah Wehrens/ KooK Studioo. All rights reserved.
This essay may not be reproduced, adapted, or republished without written permission.
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