June 27, 2023 - 10:00am

For the last few years, TikTok users have been talking about Main Character Syndrome: a semi-narcissistic tendency in which a person views themselves as the protagonist in their life story, putting themselves centre-stage and sidelining others to supporting roles. Main Character Syndrome is driven by neediness, self-obsession, insecurity, immaturity, vanity, and entitlement — and therefore seems to be an apt label for the vulture-like TikTok “detectives” still ghoulishly circling over the death of Nicola Bulley.

These unqualified, unconnected, unethical armchair analysts have become such a problem that police have threatened jail for anyone who disturbs the current inquest into Bulley’s death. Indeed, one investigation had already been hampered before her body was found — the police had to issue dispersal orders at the site of her disappearance, and one YouTuber was fined and arrested on a public order offence. Now the TikTok sleuths have been circulating conspiracy theories online: that her disappearance was staged by her friends, her husband, the police, the Government. For all the pretence of “justice”, this is about clicks and content rather than civic duty: an exploitative attempt to go viral, to play the Main Character in your own live murder mystery. 

The hysteria around Nicola Bulley may seem extreme, but it’s not exceptional. Videos trying to pinpoint the killer responsible for the death of four students in Idaho racked up over 400 million views on TikTok. Within days, a Facebook group discussing the murders had 64,000 members and 10,000 posts. A history professor was later forced to file a defamation lawsuit against a TikToker who said her tarot cards revealed that the professor was having a romantic relationship with one of the students and was responsible for their deaths.

People posting from their front-facing cameras can tell their audience, and themselves, that what they are doing is helpful, that they are simply raising awareness. Yet 170,000 people go missing in the UK every year, and these self-titled social media “experts” only obsess over one or two cases that always fit a similar profile: young, white, attractive, “innocent”, middle-class victims like Gabby Petito and Sarah Everard. Where are the public vigils for Shadika Patel, who was murdered while bringing food over to her sons’ house? Sabina Nessa’s murder received a fraction of the online attention Everard’s did, and there wasn’t the same public outcry when two police officers took a selfie with two murdered black sisters.

Our obsession with true crime is dangerous. It desensitises us to violence towards women; it causes grieving families more suffering; it trivialises tragedy and turns harrowing situations into likes; and it feeds an insatiable amoral algorithm that wants to serve us the most shocking, most sensational, most shareable soundbites. 

Ultimately, though, poring over true crime stories simply perpetuates paranoia and hyper-vigilance in an already overly-anxious world. Women are the biggest fans of true crime, but what is this doing to our sense of safety? By obsessing over these incredibly rare cases, women internalise the idea that they are in danger, and that men are inherently dangerous. Yet the number of women being murdered by men in the UK is actually falling year on year. While the number is still far too high, women are more likely to die from heart disease or a horrendous car crash than be the victim of homicide (men actually account for seven out of 10 murder victims).

The police are right to come down hard on these online sleuths, but it is one thing to arrest people who are physically present at an investigation or an inquiry: policing TikTok is a different matter. The internet, like nature, abhors a vacuum, and the need to dissect, to analyse, to churn out hot takes clearly has a gravitational pull. Yet we need to remember that this black hole of misinformation and fetishisation is not some perverted form of public service, whatever these fantasists may say. As it happens, its consequences are all too real.


Kristina Murkett is a freelance writer and English teacher.

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