UNLESS you’ve been living under a rock for the past year-and-a-bit, you will have noticed that live streaming (zhibo) has become a huge thing in China, generating billions of dollars in revenue and propelling ordinary people into Internet stardom.

Some of you will find it an enthralling insight into the daily lives of these ordinary Chinese, and others will trash it as a sign of everything that is wrong with the world today. I’m somewhere in the middle.

Live broadcasting has been around for years, often used by computer gamers to broadcast their play to viewers interested in a certain game. But since around 2015, zhibo has exploded as a way for people to broadcast themselves and their lives — however mundane — to viewers around China.

Nearly 300 companies offering zhibo have been registered in China, and it is estimated that in 2017 they will bring in US$5 billion, which is only US$2 billion less than China’s yearly movie ticket sales. Staggering, right?

But instead of budgets in the millions used to create flashy content that is later released in cinemas across the country, zhibo just requires a smartphone and an Internet connection. And that’s exactly why so many people love it, and why so many people hate it. It’s raw and it’s real, and anything can happen. Kind of.

People are broadcasting themselves eating dinner, sitting on trains, singing songs, dancing, and answering questions. For some this is entertaining and riveting, and for others it’s akin to watching paint dry.

If you haven’t watched zhibo before, I’ll quickly fill you in. Basically you just download a zhibo app, or a social app that has zhibo as one of its functions, and then you can either choose to broadcast your own life (using the front camera on your phone aimed at yourself so that you can still see your screen), or watch others.

Then audience members can send text comments which the host (zhubo) can respond to, or not, as they go about their broadcast. Viewers will often ask questions (where do you live, what do you like, etc), and make requests (sing a song, dance).

But here’s the crux of the experience, and how zhibo apps manage to rake in so much cash for zhubo and for app owners: You can purchase digital gifts, with real money, to send to broadcasters that you like. These range from digital food to digital cars and boats and so on, and at the end of the month the broadcaster can trade them in for real cash, after the app takes their cut.

This explosion in popularity of such an off-the-cuff and wide-reaching new form of media content has created massive challenges for the Chinese government, who need to keep up with new technologies and new ways of disseminating information, in a sector that’s changing monthly.

New regulations have been written and implemented regularly as the popularity of zhibo grows and grows.

The concern? That some broadcasters are using the platform to send out “pornography, violence, rumors and fraud.”

Some of the new rules have seemed unique in their own right, like when it was announced that live broadcasters could no longer eat bananas during their zhibo, after one female host attracted thousands of viewers and digital gifts by seductively eating the phallic fruit for her viewers. Now the government requires all live broadcast data to be held for 60 days, and for broadcasters whose content is “threatening to national security and order” to be blacklisted.

This puts the onus on zhibo app companies to police their own content, which often leads to self-censorship that goes above and beyond what is actually required. In short, some apps are over-policing users for fear of having their licenses revoked.

I’ve been a keen broadcaster myself for nearly a year, regularly beaming my life to thousands of viewers at any one time. And it has worked out quite well for me, allowing me to accumulate nearly 70,000 fans on one app. Some friends even call me a wanghong (Internet celebrity), which I have to admit is kind of funny!

Usually I’ll chat with my fans about my life in China, answer their questions (it can get quite repetitive as new viewers come and ask questions you’ve answered 4,000 times already), and sing the odd Chinese song, which they love! But I’ve also encountered the extra sensitive nature of zhibo, which goes to show just how far app companies are going to ensure they don’t cross the line.

One time I did a zhibo from bed because I had a massive flu and couldn’t get up. My fans were telling me what I could do to get better, including about 3,765 instances of being told to drink more hot water. Then I got an ominous message flashing on my screen, over all the other comments. “You cannot broadcast while lying in bed! Get out of bed or your broadcast will be terminated!”

Needless to say I took heed and quickly got up, keeping my blanket with me, and sat at my desk to continue.

Another time I was broadcasting on my way home. It was pretty cold outside so I was wearing a hat and a thick winter coat.

When I got home I put my phone down and told my viewers that I just needed to take some clothes off (tuo yifu). Another ominous message flashed up almost instantly telling me that my broadcast contained inappropriate material and that I needed to stop it immediately or be cut off.

I find zhibo to be a fun and entertaining way for me to engage with Chinese people on a pretty massive scale, to practice my Chinese, and to perfect my singing of Chinese classics like “The Moon Represents My Heart” and “Where Has All The Time Gone?”

No one in China today can ignore the fact that hundreds of millions of people are fans of zhibo, and that this market is phenomenally huge. I am excited to see how zhibo develops, and how the Chinese government and app companies keep up.

Editor’s note:
Andy Boreham comes from New Zealand’s capital city, Wellington, and has lived in China, off and on, for the past four years. Now he is living in Shanghai earning a master’s degree in Chinese culture and language at Fudan University. He welcomes your feedback on all of the issues he covers — you can reach him at andy.boreham@shanghaidaily.com.