Hermès, Chanel, Prada, Mercedes-Benz… Seeing luxury brand splash ads on an independent podcast platform with less than 10 million monthly active users—roughly 0.01 the size of TikTok—Dangdang couldn’t believe her eyes.

Yet, recalling how her first 100 episodes generated over RMB 300,000 in sales, and how monthly revenue later surged past RMB 150,000 once the model was validated, she realized this outcome had been foreshadowed all along.

2025 appears to be the breakout year for Chinese podcast monetization. Top-tier podcaster Luo Yonghao bluntly stated he “made money on day one.” Mid-tier creators are also reporting good news: “Annual follower growth nearly equals half of what we gained in the past five years,” or “earning hundreds of thousands per month.”

Platform competition is heating up simultaneously. Douyin (TikTok), Bilibili, and Xiaohongshu are rushing into video podcasts; WeChat Channels, Kuaishou, and Baidu are targeting audio podcasts, directly challenging established players like Ximalaya. The entire sector is ablaze with activity.

But flip past the “boiling” surface, and the next page tells a starkly different story.

“Bu He Shi Yi” (“Out of Step”), a top-tier podcast with over 500,000 subscribers, was exposed in April 2025 for withholding intern wages. The host’s response stunned netizens: even at the pinnacle of the podcasting pyramid, annual profit amounted to just RMB 130,000.

This isn’t an isolated case. Data shows that only about 20% of domestic podcasters create content full-time—the core reason being that income simply can’t sustain a livelihood.

Podcasting is both a vibrant new frontier and a “sweet trap” meticulously designed for gold-seekers.

A “Traffic Lowland” and a “High-Value Customer Goldmine”

An unexpected RMB 6,000 transfer left Dangdang utterly stunned.

By her 10th episode of the “Make Money, Get Traffic” podcast, she hadn’t even begun actively managing the channel—she’d merely uploaded recordings from corporate training sessions. With only dozens of subscribers and per-episode plays stuck in the teens, the show seemed destined for obscurity.

But precisely because it was unpolished and packed with practical insights, she accidentally attracted a few die-hard listeners. One such “high roller” reached out, added her contact, and without hesitation purchased all her related courses. This moment sharply revealed to Dangdang that podcast audiences might be far more valuable than she’d imagined.

Li Nuo, co-host of the couple-chat podcast “Natural Selection,” wasn’t surprised at all. He’d long noticed, “Today’s podcast listeners are essentially the same people who were early Xiaohongshu users.”

Scrolling through the trending charts of independent podcast apps, one finds entrepreneurship interviews, political commentary, and lifestyle aesthetics dominating the rankings. Open any episode, and you’ll hear either the host delivering sharp analysis or guests engaging in intellectual discourse—two- to three-hour conversations resembling scholars’ salons.

“People who consume this content usually carry labels like ‘highly educated,’ ‘high-spending,’ and ‘from tier-one cities,’” Li Nuo explained, drawing a parallel to Xiaohongshu several years ago.

He himself had been a devoted Xiaohongshu user, but recently, his feed became saturated with AI-generated ads or emotionally charged, gossipy posts designed purely for traffic. Authentic, interesting human voices grew scarce, replaced by soft-sell ads every three scrolls and online flame wars every five. He gradually lost interest.

Short videos also felt dull—and straining on the eyes. As the internet grew increasingly stale, Li Nuo “fled” to podcasts. Listening to episodes during his two-hour commute not only passed the time but also filled his mind with knowledge—a perfect use of fragmented moments.

Unlike Li Nuo, who actively sought refuge, podcaster VE observed that many others were actually “forced” into embracing podcasts.

“I literally can’t fall asleep without listening to a podcast,” a friend confessed. Out of professional habit, VE almost asked what they were listening to—but seeing their dark circles and streaks of gray hair, he swallowed the question.

At over 40 years old, he understood all too well: at this stage of life, content consumption boils down to one word—“survival.” His friend had just been “graduated” (a euphemism for laid off) and bore the weight of elderly parents and young children. Without voices filling the silence at night, anxiety would consume every thought.

“Right now, aside from murder mysteries and ghost stories, the hottest content is all about ‘making money,’” VE remarked bluntly. Mounting life pressures are turning more people into “knowledge-starved” seekers—eager to fill every idle ear during commutes, before bed, or while working out. When they hear something useful, they don’t hesitate to pay.

Surveys confirm that today’s youth are most willing to spend on products that “deepen professional expertise” or “improve life and work efficiency.”

Thus, in this age of anxiety, the podcast has become a lifeline through headphones—one end tethered to restless minds, the other reaching for certainty.

By the end of 2025, China’s podcast listener base is projected to surpass 170 million. Podcasters are surging in number too. VE recalls that a decade ago, podcasts were mostly casual chats; now, every niche—from book reviews to relationship advice—is overcrowded. Everyone from celebrities like Luo Yonghao and Lu Yu to stay-at-home moms and unemployed youth is jumping in.

According to Xiaoyuzhou (Small Universe)’s report, the platform added 46,000 new podcast shows in 2024. Ipsos’s “2025 Podcast Industry Report” shows that 61% of surveyed hosts saw income growth in 2024, and 44% of brands increased their ad spending.

Unfortunately, VE—who’s been podcasting for four years—isn’t among them.

Four Years, Zero Yuan: How Podcasting Became a “Gold Rush Trap”

VE, a Beijing native with no mortgage or car loan and a naturally eloquent tongue, saw podcasting as his ideal path to “midlife reinvention.”

When he proposed quitting his job to “go all-in on podcasting,” his family shut him down with just two questions:

“Have you made any money?” — “No.”

“How long until you do?” — “Maybe one or two years… maybe three or five.”

Knowing he had no solid answer, VE never brought it up again. Yet, recording late into the night, staring into an uncertain future, he still couldn’t help venting on social media.

Since becoming a podcaster, VE has lived a double-shift life. Podcasting isn’t just about talking—it demands meticulous work in planning, scripting, recording, and editing. His true-crime show alone requires digesting tens of thousands of words in case documents per episode, consuming two to three hours daily.

After grinding through consistent updates, a personal care brand finally reached out. Hope flared—until negotiations nearly collapsed: neither side knew how much to charge or pay.

“Platforms like Xiaohongshu have official ad systems—Pugongying, Juguang; Douyin has JSL—but independent podcast apps don’t,” VE sighed. Brands found him via the email on his profile, with no standardized pricing benchmarks. Both sides were clueless about each other’s “tier.”

There were few precedents to reference. VE understood clearly: “Only a tiny fraction of mid- and long-tail podcasters get ads. Right now, the top tier gets all the meat—and what they’re selling isn’t content, it’s personal IP.”

After prolonged haggling, the brand refused a flat fee and insisted on commission-only payment. Unfamiliar with his conversion ability, they sent just one bottle of shampoo—for VE and his co-host to share.

As it turned out, their caution was justified: despite his on-air mention and link placement, sales stalled at a humiliating one order. “That one was from a friend’s pity purchase—I actually earned zero yuan!”

Xiao Yu, an advertising professional, knows this pain best: “They’ve been calling it the ‘monetization year’ for podcasting for years—yet every year feels like year zero.”

In his view, platforms bear the biggest blame. On short-video apps, beauty filters transform ordinary users into stars, amassing huge followings. But in podcasting, there’s still no “voice filter” to polish raw vocals—leaving listeners with refined ears unable to tolerate heavy accents or untrained voices.

Podcasting may seem like “anyone with a mouth can do it,” but the barrier is actually high. And those who can reliably secure ad deals? Even fewer.

“The format of deep dialogue, the intimacy of human voice, and listeners’ focused attention make podcasting both a powerful marketing channel and a high-stakes gamble,” Xiao Yu explained. “If the content feels insincere, backlash is swift.” This means creators must not only produce high-quality content consistently but also integrate ads with artistry—ideally through deep customization, not just read-aloud scripts.

But for ad buyers, “customization” is expensive and cumbersome. Especially on platforms like Xiaoyuzhou, it’s even risky: decentralized recommendation algorithms cause wild traffic fluctuations—one episode gets tens of thousands of listens, the next drops to a few thousand, with no logic.

Coupled with the lack of standardized pricing and opaque gray areas, many risk-averse advertisers quietly avoid podcasts altogether. “Short videos and图文 deliver measurable ROI and are easy to justify—why wouldn’t we choose those?”

As for traditional audio platforms, Xiao Yu is even more pessimistic. “Many users are just there for web novels. Platforms earn from subscriptions; if we advertise, the engagement we get is mostly from bots.”

The weakness of the mid- and long-tail market translates directly into individual creators’ monetization struggles. According to the CPA Chinese Podcast Community Report, 55% of podcasters received at least one brand deal in 2024—but averaged only 4.5 deals per year.

Most never land a single order. Tim, who runs a book-review podcast, is one such example. Yet he isn’t frustrated.

A Spiritual Utopia—Or a “Top-Tier Competition” Battleground?

“‘Tan Ding Ru Mu’ happened at the wrong time—the policy was piloted as early as the late Kangxi era,” Tim read a listener comment moments after opening his podcast dashboard, instantly jolted awake. Scrolling further, another message stung: “Listened for half an hour—just your opinions. Where’s the substance?”

Tim, a book lover, had recorded an episode right after finishing Becoming Yongzheng, without scripting or fact-checking. One historical error was swiftly caught by a sharp-eared listener.

Faced with disappointed feedback, Tim realized clearly: today’s podcast audience might understand the content better than he does. Still, he welcomed the critique: “Intellectual friction sparks real insight.”

Like many podcasters, Tim entered the space to “share thoughts and reflections.” For four years, he’s produced hundreds of episodes purely out of passion. It’s exhausting, but looking back, he sees each episode as a “cyber diary”—chronicling his personal growth from reading scripts verbatim to speaking with effortless insight.

Through dialogues with guests and listeners, his perspectives and mindset have continually expanded. “In the podcast world, you can find your spiritual utopia.”

Yet, “intellectual friction” brings joy—and equal pain.

VE, in his fifties, had never “groveled like a dog” in his life—until podcasting gave him that experience. One night, he leapt out of bed to humbly apologize to a listener online, even calling her “sister” and begging her to delete a post. The humiliation still haunts him.

In one episode, he mispronounced “Epang Palace” (ā Fáng Gōng) as “ā Fáng Gōng” (using the common pronunciation of “fáng” instead of the correct “páng”). Within half an hour of release, a listener fiercely criticized him and posted a “warning” on social media. VE explained it was a one-time slip, but the listener insisted, “Wrong is wrong,” and refused to take it down.

Feeling deeply wronged—that a small mistake erased all his effort—VE blocked the user in anger. The backlash intensified, threatening his show’s reputation. He had no choice but to “kowtow and apologize.”

“Podcast listeners are highly literate—possibly the strictest group on the Chinese internet,” VE sighed. He must not only output intensively but also input constantly.

Yet, despite all this effort, podcasters remain vulnerable to “dimensional strikes.”

As Xiao Yu puts it, podcasting is fundamentally “top-tier competition.” No matter how hard individual creators work, they can’t compete with figures like Luo Yonghao—armed with viral redemption narratives—or the real-life startup founders featured in their interviews.

When these powerful IPs or professional brands descend, listener attention is instantly vacuumed away—as evident from platform charts perpetually dominated by a handful of familiar faces.

As the “head effect” solidifies and mid-tier creators flood in, ordinary podcasters face shrinking survival space.

Still, the podcast landscape isn’t entirely bleak. Xiao Yu points to a key trend: for many shows, video plays account for 80–90% of total views—far outpacing pure audio.

“In the West, audio podcasts thrive because people drive to work. In China, commuters mostly take subways or buses—video is more stimulating and keeps you alert,” he explains. Plus, video podcasts don’t demand the visual polish of traditional long-form video, and they soften controversial viewpoints, giving newcomers a fighting chance.

Dangdang is even more direct: “It’s not that podcasting doesn’t make money—it’s that your content doesn’t earn.”

In her view, “money-making” podcasts naturally monetize easier than book reviews or emotional storytelling.

But she stresses: don’t fixate on ads. Instead of creating value for brands, solve problems directly for users. She now offers private podcast coaching—not just teaching “how to make money,” but diagnosing each student’s personality blind spots and flawed methods, prescribing personalized “remedies.” Despite a price tag of RMB 5,200, demand remains strong.

“If you truly want fame or fortune, you can achieve at least one,” Dangdang declares plainly. “The key is: don’t wait.”

Hermès, Chanel, Prada, Mercedes-Benz… Seeing luxury brand splash ads on an independent podcast platform with less than 10 million monthly active users—roughly 0.01 the size of TikTok—Dangdang couldn’t believe her eyes.

Yet, recalling how her first 100 episodes generated over RMB 300,000 in sales, and how monthly revenue later surged past RMB 150,000 once the model was validated, she realized this outcome had been foreshadowed all along.

2025 appears to be the breakout year for Chinese podcast monetization. Top-tier podcaster Luo Yonghao bluntly stated he “made money on day one.” Mid-tier creators are also reporting good news: “Annual follower growth nearly equals half of what we gained in the past five years,” or “earning hundreds of thousands per month.”

Platform competition is heating up simultaneously. Douyin (TikTok), Bilibili, and Xiaohongshu are rushing into video podcasts; WeChat Channels, Kuaishou, and Baidu are targeting audio podcasts, directly challenging established players like Ximalaya. The entire sector is ablaze with activity.

But flip past the “boiling” surface, and the next page tells a starkly different story.

“Bu He Shi Yi” (“Out of Step”), a top-tier podcast with over 500,000 subscribers, was exposed in April 2025 for withholding intern wages. The host’s response stunned netizens: even at the pinnacle of the podcasting pyramid, annual profit amounted to just RMB 130,000.

This isn’t an isolated case. Data shows that only about 20% of domestic podcasters create content full-time—the core reason being that income simply can’t sustain a livelihood.

Podcasting is both a vibrant new frontier and a “sweet trap” meticulously designed for gold-seekers.

A “Traffic Lowland” and a “High-Value Customer Goldmine”

An unexpected RMB 6,000 transfer left Dangdang utterly stunned.

By her 10th episode of the “Make Money, Get Traffic” podcast, she hadn’t even begun actively managing the channel—she’d merely uploaded recordings from corporate training sessions. With only dozens of subscribers and per-episode plays stuck in the teens, the show seemed destined for obscurity.

But precisely because it was unpolished and packed with practical insights, she accidentally attracted a few die-hard listeners. One such “high roller” reached out, added her contact, and without hesitation purchased all her related courses. This moment sharply revealed to Dangdang that podcast audiences might be far more valuable than she’d imagined.

Li Nuo, co-host of the couple-chat podcast “Natural Selection,” wasn’t surprised at all. He’d long noticed, “Today’s podcast listeners are essentially the same people who were early Xiaohongshu users.”

Scrolling through the trending charts of independent podcast apps, one finds entrepreneurship interviews, political commentary, and lifestyle aesthetics dominating the rankings. Open any episode, and you’ll hear either the host delivering sharp analysis or guests engaging in intellectual discourse—two- to three-hour conversations resembling scholars’ salons.

“People who consume this content usually carry labels like ‘highly educated,’ ‘high-spending,’ and ‘from tier-one cities,’” Li Nuo explained, drawing a parallel to Xiaohongshu several years ago.

He himself had been a devoted Xiaohongshu user, but recently, his feed became saturated with AI-generated ads or emotionally charged, gossipy posts designed purely for traffic. Authentic, interesting human voices grew scarce, replaced by soft-sell ads every three scrolls and online flame wars every five. He gradually lost interest.

Short videos also felt dull—and straining on the eyes. As the internet grew increasingly stale, Li Nuo “fled” to podcasts. Listening to episodes during his two-hour commute not only passed the time but also filled his mind with knowledge—a perfect use of fragmented moments.

Unlike Li Nuo, who actively sought refuge, podcaster VE observed that many others were actually “forced” into embracing podcasts.

“I literally can’t fall asleep without listening to a podcast,” a friend confessed. Out of professional habit, VE almost asked what they were listening to—but seeing their dark circles and streaks of gray hair, he swallowed the question.

At over 40 years old, he understood all too well: at this stage of life, content consumption boils down to one word—“survival.” His friend had just been “graduated” (a euphemism for laid off) and bore the weight of elderly parents and young children. Without voices filling the silence at night, anxiety would consume every thought.

“Right now, aside from murder mysteries and ghost stories, the hottest content is all about ‘making money,’” VE remarked bluntly. Mounting life pressures are turning more people into “knowledge-starved” seekers—eager to fill every idle ear during commutes, before bed, or while working out. When they hear something useful, they don’t hesitate to pay.

Surveys confirm that today’s youth are most willing to spend on products that “deepen professional expertise” or “improve life and work efficiency.”

Thus, in this age of anxiety, the podcast has become a lifeline through headphones—one end tethered to restless minds, the other reaching for certainty.

By the end of 2025, China’s podcast listener base is projected to surpass 170 million. Podcasters are surging in number too. VE recalls that a decade ago, podcasts were mostly casual chats; now, every niche—from book reviews to relationship advice—is overcrowded. Everyone from celebrities like Luo Yonghao and Lu Yu to stay-at-home moms and unemployed youth is jumping in.

According to Xiaoyuzhou (Small Universe)’s report, the platform added 46,000 new podcast shows in 2024. Ipsos’s “2025 Podcast Industry Report” shows that 61% of surveyed hosts saw income growth in 2024, and 44% of brands increased their ad spending.

Unfortunately, VE—who’s been podcasting for four years—isn’t among them.

Four Years, Zero Yuan: How Podcasting Became a “Gold Rush Trap”

VE, a Beijing native with no mortgage or car loan and a naturally eloquent tongue, saw podcasting as his ideal path to “midlife reinvention.”

When he proposed quitting his job to “go all-in on podcasting,” his family shut him down with just two questions:

“Have you made any money?” — “No.”

“How long until you do?” — “Maybe one or two years… maybe three or five.”

Knowing he had no solid answer, VE never brought it up again. Yet, recording late into the night, staring into an uncertain future, he still couldn’t help venting on social media.

Since becoming a podcaster, VE has lived a double-shift life. Podcasting isn’t just about talking—it demands meticulous work in planning, scripting, recording, and editing. His true-crime show alone requires digesting tens of thousands of words in case documents per episode, consuming two to three hours daily.

After grinding through consistent updates, a personal care brand finally reached out. Hope flared—until negotiations nearly collapsed: neither side knew how much to charge or pay.

“Platforms like Xiaohongshu have official ad systems—Pugongying, Juguang; Douyin has JSL—but independent podcast apps don’t,” VE sighed. Brands found him via the email on his profile, with no standardized pricing benchmarks. Both sides were clueless about each other’s “tier.”

There were few precedents to reference. VE understood clearly: “Only a tiny fraction of mid- and long-tail podcasters get ads. Right now, the top tier gets all the meat—and what they’re selling isn’t content, it’s personal IP.”

After prolonged haggling, the brand refused a flat fee and insisted on commission-only payment. Unfamiliar with his conversion ability, they sent just one bottle of shampoo—for VE and his co-host to share.

As it turned out, their caution was justified: despite his on-air mention and link placement, sales stalled at a humiliating one order. “That one was from a friend’s pity purchase—I actually earned zero yuan!”

Xiao Yu, an advertising professional, knows this pain best: “They’ve been calling it the ‘monetization year’ for podcasting for years—yet every year feels like year zero.”

In his view, platforms bear the biggest blame. On short-video apps, beauty filters transform ordinary users into stars, amassing huge followings. But in podcasting, there’s still no “voice filter” to polish raw vocals—leaving listeners with refined ears unable to tolerate heavy accents or untrained voices.

Podcasting may seem like “anyone with a mouth can do it,” but the barrier is actually high. And those who can reliably secure ad deals? Even fewer.

“The format of deep dialogue, the intimacy of human voice, and listeners’ focused attention make podcasting both a powerful marketing channel and a high-stakes gamble,” Xiao Yu explained. “If the content feels insincere, backlash is swift.” This means creators must not only produce high-quality content consistently but also integrate ads with artistry—ideally through deep customization, not just read-aloud scripts.

But for ad buyers, “customization” is expensive and cumbersome. Especially on platforms like Xiaoyuzhou, it’s even risky: decentralized recommendation algorithms cause wild traffic fluctuations—one episode gets tens of thousands of listens, the next drops to a few thousand, with no logic.

Coupled with the lack of standardized pricing and opaque gray areas, many risk-averse advertisers quietly avoid podcasts altogether. “Short videos and图文 deliver measurable ROI and are easy to justify—why wouldn’t we choose those?”

As for traditional audio platforms, Xiao Yu is even more pessimistic. “Many users are just there for web novels. Platforms earn from subscriptions; if we advertise, the engagement we get is mostly from bots.”

The weakness of the mid- and long-tail market translates directly into individual creators’ monetization struggles. According to the CPA Chinese Podcast Community Report, 55% of podcasters received at least one brand deal in 2024—but averaged only 4.5 deals per year.

Most never land a single order. Tim, who runs a book-review podcast, is one such example. Yet he isn’t frustrated.

A Spiritual Utopia—Or a “Top-Tier Competition” Battleground?

“‘Tan Ding Ru Mu’ happened at the wrong time—the policy was piloted as early as the late Kangxi era,” Tim read a listener comment moments after opening his podcast dashboard, instantly jolted awake. Scrolling further, another message stung: “Listened for half an hour—just your opinions. Where’s the substance?”

Tim, a book lover, had recorded an episode right after finishing Becoming Yongzheng, without scripting or fact-checking. One historical error was swiftly caught by a sharp-eared listener.

Faced with disappointed feedback, Tim realized clearly: today’s podcast audience might understand the content better than he does. Still, he welcomed the critique: “Intellectual friction sparks real insight.”

Like many podcasters, Tim entered the space to “share thoughts and reflections.” For four years, he’s produced hundreds of episodes purely out of passion. It’s exhausting, but looking back, he sees each episode as a “cyber diary”—chronicling his personal growth from reading scripts verbatim to speaking with effortless insight.

Through dialogues with guests and listeners, his perspectives and mindset have continually expanded. “In the podcast world, you can find your spiritual utopia.”

Yet, “intellectual friction” brings joy—and equal pain.

VE, in his fifties, had never “groveled like a dog” in his life—until podcasting gave him that experience. One night, he leapt out of bed to humbly apologize to a listener online, even calling her “sister” and begging her to delete a post. The humiliation still haunts him.

In one episode, he mispronounced “Epang Palace” (ā Fáng Gōng) as “ā Fáng Gōng” (using the common pronunciation of “fáng” instead of the correct “páng”). Within half an hour of release, a listener fiercely criticized him and posted a “warning” on social media. VE explained it was a one-time slip, but the listener insisted, “Wrong is wrong,” and refused to take it down.

Feeling deeply wronged—that a small mistake erased all his effort—VE blocked the user in anger. The backlash intensified, threatening his show’s reputation. He had no choice but to “kowtow and apologize.”

“Podcast listeners are highly literate—possibly the strictest group on the Chinese internet,” VE sighed. He must not only output intensively but also input constantly.

Yet, despite all this effort, podcasters remain vulnerable to “dimensional strikes.”

As Xiao Yu puts it, podcasting is fundamentally “top-tier competition.” No matter how hard individual creators work, they can’t compete with figures like Luo Yonghao—armed with viral redemption narratives—or the real-life startup founders featured in their interviews.

When these powerful IPs or professional brands descend, listener attention is instantly vacuumed away—as evident from platform charts perpetually dominated by a handful of familiar faces.

As the “head effect” solidifies and mid-tier creators flood in, ordinary podcasters face shrinking survival space.

Still, the podcast landscape isn’t entirely bleak. Xiao Yu points to a key trend: for many shows, video plays account for 80–90% of total views—far outpacing pure audio.

“In the West, audio podcasts thrive because people drive to work. In China, commuters mostly take subways or buses—video is more stimulating and keeps you alert,” he explains. Plus, video podcasts don’t demand the visual polish of traditional long-form video, and they soften controversial viewpoints, giving newcomers a fighting chance.

Dangdang is even more direct: “It’s not that podcasting doesn’t make money—it’s that your content doesn’t earn.”

In her view, “money-making” podcasts naturally monetize easier than book reviews or emotional storytelling.

But she stresses: don’t fixate on ads. Instead of creating value for brands, solve problems directly for users. She now offers private podcast coaching—not just teaching “how to make money,” but diagnosing each student’s personality blind spots and flawed methods, prescribing personalized “remedies.” Despite a price tag of RMB 5,200, demand remains strong.

“If you truly want fame or fortune, you can achieve at least one,” Dangdang declares plainly. “The key is: don’t wait.”