The American media is failing its public mandate. In its pursuit of outrage as a business model, it fixates on low-stakes dramas better suited to soap operas than to civic discourse. Its path is predictable—its nose twitching at the faintest scent of scandal; headlining heists, hurricanes, heartbreaks, and hysteria with the manic energy of a gambler chasing redemption. Anger and absurdity are its oxygen; indignation, its currency. It feeds like piranhas on stories that keep audiences clicking, sharing, and seething. The age of Cronkite and Vidal—when journalism sought to enlighten rather than inflame—is a distant memory.

Every week delivers a new “national crisis,” breathlessly framed as a test of the country’s soul. This week’s obsession: a debate over a White House ballroom and the demolition of the East Wing—a crisis of architecture, not humanity. Last week’s fixation: the guest list at a celebrity fundraiser. Next week, there will be another distraction—a new shiny exorcist dressed for the ball, plucked from irrelevance, polished into catastrophe, and sold to us as if civilization hung in the balance.

But beneath the churn of headlines lies a more urgent question: What aren’t we talking about?

When the press devotes hours of airtime and thousands of words to undeserving narratives, it’s not just being frivolous—it’s abdicating its civic duty. These stories may deliver dopamine and digital traffic, but they tell us nothing about the struggles shaping people’s lives. Affordable housing is a contradiction in terms. Wages lag behind costs. Climate change is devastating communities. And gun violence has turned classrooms into bunkers. Yet the media continues to serve the public a steady diet of trivial spectacle—stories that neither inform nor empower—creating a lazy Susan of rudderless rage.

The press does not merely mirror public priorities; it molds them. It preys on the most reactive corners of human psychology—fear, envy, and resentment—because anger sustains attention, and attention sustains profit. Complexity is too slow for the feed. In the news orbit, facts matter less than friction; substance less than spectacle.

Meanwhile, the issues that matter most to people—income inequality, education reform, healthcare dysfunction, food insecurity, discrimination, mental health, environmental collapse, and geopolitical instability—struggle for attention. They are too deep and uncomfortable to compete with the sideshows the media spotlights.

Worse still, the media increasingly rewards notoriety over integrity. Consider George Santos, the disgraced congressman convicted of fraud and identity theft. Within hours of his release from prison, major outlets lined up to chronicle his “comeback.” The justification was simple: he draws an audience. But what does the public gain from platforming a confessed fabulist? What message does it send when those who lie for power are handed redemption arcs, while Americans exonerated after decades behind bars are ignored? 

Every minute of coverage is a moral decision. For every Santos interview, there could be a story about the failures of the criminal justice system. For every piece about celebrity excess, there could be a feature on a town banding together to solve local problems. Journalism’s power lies not only in what it illuminates, but in what it withholds. Increasingly, major outlets have blurred the line between the newsroom and the tabloid rack.

The industry insists it simply gives people what they want. But that defense collapses under scrutiny. A democracy doesn’t thrive on diversion; it depends on depth. The press owes its audience not stimulation but understanding. Context. Proportion. Restraint. An obligation to inform rather than inflame. The erosion of public trust in journalism is not the byproduct of polarization—it is the predictable result of a media economy that prizes engagement over enlightenment. 

But all is not lost. Across the country, dedicated reporters still practice the unglamorous craft of accountability—covering city councils, investigating corruption, and exposing environmental crimes. Their work rarely trends on social media, but it changes lives and shapes laws. They are the custodians of the public square, offering a compass for national outlets adrift. 

If journalism is to recover its integrity, its incentives must change. Newsrooms must decouple profit from provocation. They must rethink how stories are selected, impact is measured, and reporters are rewarded. They must rediscover the discipline of proportion—recognizing that not every controversy deserves a flyover.

Audiences, too, hold power. Every click, share, and subscription is a vote for the kind of journalism we want to survive. We should reward importance over conflict, reporting over performance, and depth over drama.

The White House ballroom story matters less than it seems—not because it is meaningless, but because bigger challenges demand our limited bandwidth. The structure worth defending is our collective focus: our ability to discern urgent from loud. When the media becomes a circus, we don’t need to mount the elephant. We need to get in the arena, clear-eyed, and keep our attention on the stakes that matter.

Stories of bipartisan cooperation have all but vanished from today’s headlines. Most citizens would be surprised to learn that lawmakers from both parties are quietly advancing initiatives on fentanyl prevention, aviation safety, and infrastructure renewal. Imagine how public discourse—and trust in government—might change if these examples of collaboration, progress, and shared purpose received even a fraction of the attention given to the partisan theater that dominates our screens.

By choosing what we read, reward, and believe, we can still reclaim a press worthy of the democracy it serves. The media’s addiction to outrage is eroding our understanding of the world and distorting our priorities. But we have the power to rebuild it—brick by brick.

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Andrew Kirschner is the founder of Epic Walking Tours in New York City.