On October 17, 2025, a Los Angeles-based singer-songwriter named Sophia James set the wheels of a viral social media phenomenon in motion with a simple experiment. Armed with her newly released single, "So Unfair," and a keen sense of how TikTok’s algorithm operates, James posted a series of seven videos to the platform, each designed to test how her music could reach new audiences. What followed was an explosion of engagement, celebrity participation, and a revealing look at how young people—especially Gen Z—consume, critique, and share culture in the digital age.
James, who first caught public attention as a contestant on Season 18 of American Idol and later released her debut album Clockwork in 2024, described her TikTok initiative as a "science experiment." According to The Los Angeles Times, her goal was to "bully the algorithm" into giving her song a wider audience. She explained, "These days ... you have to take to social media to get your music heard." James admitted she’s not usually one to chase trends, but she recognized that "I’ve worked too long and too hard and put too much care into [the music] to not try using creative methods to get it out there, social media being one of them."
The first three videos in her series made no mention of groups; they were casual, featuring James talking about everyday annoyances like parking tickets and the challenges of breaking through on social media. But videos four through seven each labeled viewers as members of "Group 4" through "Group 7," depending on which video landed on their "for you page." In these, James didn’t speak, instead lip-syncing to her song and displaying text: "I am posting a bunch of videos to and seeing which ones reach the most viewers." The twist came in the final video. In "Group 7," James looked into the camera and said, "I don’t know what that says about you, but you’re in ‘Group 7,’ welcome."
It was this final, slightly offbeat approach that caught fire. By October 22, the "Group 7" video had racked up 3.3 million likes and over 150,000 comments. The trend spread rapidly. Tennis champion Naomi Osaka joined in, posting, "If you’re not in group 7 keep scrolling." Even "Shark Tank" star Barbara Corcoran got involved, joking, "How it feels waking up in Group 7." Suddenly, being in "Group 7" became the latest badge of online belonging—a kind of digital sorting hat, as one expert put it.
But what made "Group 7" more than just another TikTok fad? According to Karen North, a professor of digital social media and psychology at USC, James’s experiment was a masterclass in manipulating TikTok’s engagement-driven algorithm. North explained to The Times, "There are strategies and tricks that you can try that will promote your content." TikTok’s algorithm, she said, is powered by a point system: the more likes, comments, shares, and watch time a video gets, the more likely it is to appear on users’ personalized feeds. And when celebrities or brands engage, it amplifies the trend’s reach and longevity. "It creates the feeling that we’re all connected to each other in a very personal way," North added.
James’s "Group 7" wasn’t just a clever marketing move—it was a participatory game, tapping into TikTok’s core ethos. "TikTok is a participatory platform," North emphasized. "This is like the Harry Potter sorting hat of TikTok videos." By inviting users to discover which "group" they belonged to, James transformed passive viewers into active participants, fueling a viral loop that even the most seasoned marketers would envy.
The "Group 7" phenomenon also arrived at a time when TikTok was buzzing with cultural commentary and critique, especially following the release of Taylor Swift’s much-anticipated album, The Life of a Showgirl. As Vox reported, TikTok quickly filled with videos analyzing Swift’s lyrics, persona, and broader cultural impact. Some users offered speculative, even outlandish, takes—one calling the album "a case study in moral collapse," while another dissected Swift’s public image through the lens of race. These videos, often using the app’s green-screen tool to float text and images above the speaker’s head, routinely garnered millions of views and tens of thousands of comments.
This deluge of hot takes and armchair analysis isn’t unique to Swift or even to TikTok. As Jamie Cohen, a media studies professor at Queens College CUNY, explained, TikTok’s brand of cultural commentary is a bite-sized evolution of the long-form video essays that once thrived on YouTube. "The format of analysis videos on YouTube is much more essay-like, whereas on TikTok it’s about designing and layering up," Cohen said. On YouTube, creators are incentivized to cite sources and dig deep; on TikTok, brevity reigns, and the pressure is on to make a quick, definitive statement—often at the expense of nuance or accuracy.
Brand strategist Nikita Walia pointed out that while the best TikTok creators "spark further exploration" in their audiences, the platform’s format "rewards closure, quick takes, clear answers, [and] moral certainty." The result? Ideas become aesthetic objects to be consumed, not debated. "What once invited dialogue now functions as display," Walia told Vox.
Yet, for all its flaws, TikTok has become a primary source of news and cultural commentary for Gen Z. A Pew Research Center study published in January 2025 found that 52 percent of TikTok users—about 17 percent of all U.S. adults—regularly get news from the app. However, journalists account for just 0.4 percent of the accounts these users follow, meaning most of the information comes from peers, influencers, or self-styled critics rather than credentialed reporters.
Why has TikTok become such a powerful force in shaping how young people learn and discuss culture? Cohen suggests that the answer lies in the platform’s addictive features—the endless scroll, the algorithm’s uncanny ability to predict what users want to see, and the brevity of the videos themselves, which can make hours slip by unnoticed. Many young people, he said, "can’t get off of social media," and if they’re going to be stuck scrolling, they want to feel like they’re gaining something from the experience—even if the information isn’t always rigorous or true.
Walia echoed this sentiment, noting, "People want to feel that their time online has meaning, and in some ways it does. However, even the smartest content has to play by the same algorithmic rules that favor speed and stimulation over reflection." The desire for knowledge, she argued, shouldn’t be dismissed as laziness or superficiality; rather, it’s a response to a world where traditional pathways to education and dialogue are increasingly inaccessible or under threat.
In the end, the "Group 7" trend and the rise of TikTok cultural commentary are two sides of the same coin. Both reflect a generation that craves connection, participation, and meaning in a digital landscape that is fast, fragmented, and ever-changing. As Cohen put it, "The world itself makes them feel disenfranchised. It doesn’t give them power, so they do want to be educated." And, perhaps most importantly, "they don’t want to feel left behind."
The digital age may not always reward depth or accuracy, but it has given rise to new forms of community and creativity—sometimes sparked by a song, a trend, or even a simple question: are you in Group 7?
