In Classical Greek mythology, few things are more dangerous than hubris. In one of the most renowned examples, Icarus, fleeing the island of Crete, flew too close to the sun until the heat melted the wax on his wings, plunging him into the sea. It was a tragedy, and also a reminder of the seductive peril of overreach, especially for aspiring young people.

Recent years have seen plenty of writers, academics, and artists take Icarian falls of their own. The latest is Zhuge Yiyang, the 29-year-old political philosophy Ph.D. candidate at Boston College and founder of the wildly popular Chinese-language podcast “Monologues of a Committed Observer.” In the weeks since her August interview with director Christopher Nolan made her a global star, Zhuge, who also goes by the alias Zhong Shu, has seen her reputation in China collapse, as critics accuse her of serial plagiarism in both her writing and podcast scripts.

Zhuge has denied the allegations, but the backlash has already taken a toll on her career, with multiple public events where she was due to appear being canceled without explanation.

Prior to her viral Nolan interview, Zhuge had built an idol-like fandom among young Chinese, attracting over 970,000 subscribers to her podcast. Her fans praised her confident, assertive tone and unapologetic approach to being a young female intellectual. They were also drawn to her seemingly boundless knowledge, ranging from Greek philosophy to the modern history of the Middle East, as well as her astonishingly prolific output — in addition to her Ph.D. studies, she managed to release podcast episodes roughly every three days and publish six translated books in the span of a year, all while writing regular columns and maintaining an active presence on social media and at public events.

Zhuge is something of an extreme case, but her profile is representative of China’s new generation of public intellectuals. It’s no longer enough to be a good writer, translator, or speaker. Fans and employers alike demand all-around excellence and near-constant output. The rewards are handsome, but it’s no coincidence that all the industries Zhuge has dabbled in, including academia, media, and publishing, are struggling financially and no longer offer secure employment.

Take academia, for example. A July report on the extent of recent layoffs in British higher education — nearly 4,000 cuts in a single year, according to the Guardian — drew attention on Chinese social media, where young scholars shared their own stories of the deteriorating academic job market and the dim prospects of surviving the harsh “up or out” tenure system.

Faced with a lack of opportunities inside the ivory tower, a number of Chinese Ph.D. students in the social sciences and humanities have turned to social media. Some start podcasts or other ambitious projects; many more use their profiles to advertise tutoring and proofreading services: a side hustle to subsidize tuition fees and living costs or cushion themselves against post-graduation unemployment.

Likewise, fearing they are fighting a losing war against social media and short-form videos, news outlets are increasingly gambling on “stars” rather than subject-matter experts. Newsrooms across China now incentivize journalists to build their own “personal IP” — a euphemism for becoming online influencers.

In many cases, this means doing research, voiceover, video editing, and social media operations all by themselves or with the support of a small team. It also involves creating renshe, or “persona,” which gives the journalist a memorable public image — such as being “funny,” “knowledgeable,” or “resilient” — a strategy borrowed from the wider community of online celebrities.

For cultural workers, the distinction between being a beloved influencer or a mere expert can make a material difference. When a guest on her podcast noted that rates for Chinese translators of academic books are typically lower than 0.1 yuan ($0.015) per Chinese character, without royalties, Zhuge appeared surprised, saying that her book deal was quite different.

Indeed, publishing houses often offer more to celebrity translators with big fanbases, even if they do not deliver the finest translations. This is especially true in niche markets such as the humanities and social sciences, where the benchmark for a best-seller can be as low as 10,000 copies a year.

This influencer model ultimately shifts industry-wide crises and responsibilities onto individuals. Although intellectuals have always been entangled in market dynamics, their role as salespeople has never been more prominent than it is today. As far as industry or academia are concerned, scholars, journalists, translators, and countless others in the cultural industry who struggle financially have only themselves to blame for lacking an appealing online persona.

Many find themselves trapped in an inherently volatile situation. The race for ever more impressive public images pushes ambitious young writers, journalists, and academics to prioritize performative work, incentivizing plagiarism, polarizing content, and exaggeration of their credentials. Original work gets depreciated: doctoral research, investigative journalism, and book projects that take years of painstaking effort continue to be undervalued.

The unbalanced distribution of resources, wealth, and responsibilities eventually drains cultural institutions’ ability to attract the best talent. It also damages their most valuable asset: trust.

This is particularly frustrating for those who draw inspiration from success stories like Zhuge, including women denied the right to speak assertively under patriarchal culture; ethnic minority scholars sidelined in Western academic discourse, especially in disciplines such as Classics that have been reserved for white elites; and people eager to access knowledge that’s been paywalled by academic journals or expensive degree programs.

In Chinese fandom, an idol doesn’t fall from the sky; rather, their house collapses around them. Known as tafang, the word describes the world-ending despair fans feel when their favorite celebrity lets them down.

The recent controversies surrounding her work may not end Zhuge’s career, but they offer a useful example of what happens when intellectualism is rebuilt around the ideal of superhuman output. The cultivation of over-inflated personas has enriched a few and demoralized the rest. Addressing the challenges facing cultural institutions and workers requires sustained investment and broad-based public support. Hinging everything on individual effort, no matter how Herculean, will only speed their collapse.

(Header image: Visuals from VCG, reedited by Sixth Tone)