Jul 31, 2025 Society
It started slowly at first. In the first few months after my wife and I became home owners, the algorithmic puppeteers at Instagram and YouTube started showing me more and more videos — made primarily by men in their 30s, sitting talking at tables with professional-looking microphones in front of their faces — about mortgages, and savings, and equity, and leverage. I, of course, took the bait and started clicking. The floodgates opened.
What I’d done in buying a house depended on who I was listening to. It might be the first step in an inevitable journey towards an interwoven network of debt and leveraged real estate that would set me up for untold wealth and dominion. I would retire early, live the rest of my days with the wind of freedom blowing through my thinning hair. Or else I’d made the worst decision of my life, duped by the boomers and Gen Xers who’d ridden a one-off wave of property price increases to prosperity based on nothing but dumb luck. I’d saddled my future self with mortgage payments and rates bills and maintenance costs and insurance and taxes, all of which would more than negate the expected rise of just 6%.
It was the next turn of the algorithm that I didn’t expect. Soon, the houses and mortgages were gone, replaced with Bitcoin, Ethereum, Dogecoin and a whole host of other cryptocurrencies. I’ll admit — I was entranced. I’d had a passing (and regretfully passive) obsession with Bitcoin years earlier and a colleague had once given me $15 worth of Bitcoin as a Secret Santa gift. Except all he’d really done was opened a wallet and given me a printout of a long number. He promised he’d make the actual deposit, but he never did.
I watched videos of young men in their basements-turned-content-studios telling me how rich I could be if I invested in this coin or that. I was educated about shitcoins and memecoins and pump and dumps and snipers. I was told about how stupid people were to have their money in retirement plans or index funds or, worst of all, savings accounts. I was told about Michael Saylor, who’d turned an unprofitable software company (MicroStrategy, now Strategy) into one of the fastest-growing stocks in the world by buying billions of dollars of Bitcoin and then borrowing against that Bitcoin to raise money to, you guessed it, buy more Bitcoin. An ultimate financial hack; an infinite money machine.
Then came the day traders, sitting on their at-least-two-monitor computers, reading the minute rises and falls of a stock’s value (green ‘candles’ when they go up, red when they go down) like tea leaves — buying, holding for a stress-inducing few seconds before selling, leveraging huge amounts of money to make a quick couple of thousand. They explain to their viewers what they’re looking for, giving cryptic names to shapes that you can buy in astrology-esque diagram maps.
This is all, I was relieved to discover, a relatively new phenomenon. Not that long ago, the world of investing was the exclusive domain of suited bankers and seasoned financial advisers. ‘Mum and Dad investors’ (prized citizens, according to our political leaders) bought stocks and bonds via a broker over the phone and checked their portfolios in the business section of the local daily paper. But thanks to technological advancements (primarily those powered by the internet and then smartphones) and profound socio-economic shifts (declining purchasing power for most, rising wealth inequality for all), the world of investing has flung open its digital doors, inviting a new generation into its speculative embrace. This ‘democratisation’ isn’t just about accessibility; it’s a complex tapestry of opportunity, psychological manipulation and the desperate search for a shortcut to wealth in an increasingly unequal world.
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At the centre of this financial revolution is the recent growth of commission-free trading apps. Platforms like Sharesies, Stake and Hatch (or the ironically named Robinhood in the United States) have stripped away the traditional barriers to entry that kept people out of the market. Gone are high brokerage fees, minimum investments and opaque processes. With just a smartphone or a laptop, anyone with proof of ID and a bank deposit can buy a fraction of a Tesla share or TrumpCoin.
This accessibility has had a profound impact on who trades and how they trade. The apps actively encourage frequent, short-term trading, enticing users with engagement bonuses, rather than the buy-and-hold strategies championed by more traditional ‘value’ investors (i.e. people who read Warren Buffet books as a kid). Features like social trading (sharing wins and losses on the platform or across social media) and copy trading (which allows novices to mimic the moves of the successful, after a delay) create a sense of collective wisdom, even if that wisdom is fleeting, out of date or just unproven.
Trading apps have introduced many to the market who might otherwise never have considered it, but their ease of use can obscure the inherent risks, fostering a belief that investing is a game that can be won by those who ‘grind’ hard enough. The platforms use gamification as a deliberate strategy to drive usage and, consequently, fees. They borrow platform design and aesthetics from video games and social media — vibrant colour schemes, digital confetti, thumbs-ups, push notifications and likes-and-subscribes to nudge specific actions are all designed to stimulate dopamine hits, creating a cycle of excitement and compulsion. A 2025 study by the Ontario Securities Commission found that features like social feeds and copy trading significantly increase trading volume in promoted stocks.
This gamified approach is particularly attractive to younger investors, who can be more susceptible to the allure of instant gratification and the addictive potential of quick gains. The instantaneous and constant availability of markets, especially the 24/7 nature of crypto trading, can lead to obsessive checking and compulsive trading, blurring the lines between investing and online gambling (itself a rising problem in the United States and about to be expanded in New Zealand when the government’s new online casino regime launches in early 2026). One of several recent studies on the trading of retail options — a complex and highly speculative investment vehicle particularly popular with day traders and YouTubers, whereby investors buy or sell contracts that grant the right, but not the obligation, to buy or sell an underlying asset at a predetermined price on or before a specific date — showed significant losses by participants in the market, with average option purchases losing 5% to 9%.
This shift from long-term investment to short-term speculation, often in increments of seconds, has transformed parts of the stock market into a de facto gambling platform. Such a change is apparent in the social media phenomenon of ‘meme stocks’ — stocks picked for non-financial reasons (often nostalgia or just for lols), exemplified by the GameStop saga of 2021 — which has seen investors coordinating on platforms like Reddit and Twitter (now X) to drive up the prices of struggling companies, sometimes with no regard to their financial reports or future business opportunities.
Cryptocurrencies also partake of this speculative mania. Their extreme volatility, often driven by hive-mind hype rather than intrinsic value, makes them particularly attractive to those seeking quick profits. For many young people, crypto isn’t just an asset with an underlying utility (yes, there can be technological utility behind some cryptocurrencies), it’s a digital lottery ticket towards instant riches. Locally, the surge in cryptocurrency trading has been linked to our country’s ongoing housing affordability crisis — with traditional paths to homeownership rising out of reach, young New Zealanders are reportedly turning to speculative investments in the hopes of accumulating a deposit.
This is also where the concept of stock stans comes into play. Much like dedicated fans (‘stans’) of a pop star or athlete, these fiercely loyal retail investors champion specific stocks, such as Tesla (TSLA) or Palantir (PLTR), often forming online communities around them. Their convictions can be so strong that they will continue to buy and hold, or even advocate for, a stock despite worsening market conditions or declining company fundamentals. This loyalty can create ‘cult stocks’, where the share price is driven more by collective belief and community enthusiasm than by traditional financial metrics. This leads in turn to irrational valuations and significant volatility — see, for example, Tesla stans on YouTube literally jumping for joy at Elon Musk announcing on a quarterly earnings call that he expects the widespread rollout of fully autonomous vehicles by the end of the year (and domestic AI robotics to be available next year), despite years of him saying similar things on earnings calls (to keep the stock price up) and his promises never eventuating.
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Fuelling the delirium is a new breed of financial influencers, or ‘finfluencers’, who proliferate on platforms like YouTube, Instagram and TikTok. Often with slickly produced graphics, fast cars, big homes, screenshots of their portfolios (that somehow contain no losing stocks) and an apparent limitless self-assurance, they peddle the newest version of ‘get rich quick’ schemes disguised as investment advice. These range from promises of overnight crypto fortunes and high-yield forex trading to multi-level marketing schemes and dubious online business ventures.
These content creators are masters of emotional manipulation, employing tactics like FOMO (fear of missing out) and creating a sense of urgency to pressure followers into impulsive decisions. They often lack any formal financial qualifications (and are usually at pains to remind the audience as such, to avoid litigation) and frequently fail to disclose conflicts of interest, such as payments for promoting specific products or the fact they’ll profit from enticing their followers to buy the stocks they already own, thus driving up their value. More often than not, the money behind those cars and houses tends to come from subscribers to their get-rich-quick trading schemes, rather than their actual trading.
The allure of subscribing to these schemes is deeply rooted in contemporary socio-economic anxieties. As economic growth slows, social mobility declines and wealth inequality surges, traditional avenues for advancement — stable jobs, wage growth, affordable housing — seem increasingly inaccessible for many, especially the young. Inflation further exacerbates this, eroding savings and making productive, long-term investments feel slow and unrewarding.
In such a climate, the promise of a rapid, substantial return on investment is intensely appealing. The very notion that one can overcome systemic disadvantages through a single, bold financial move, or by following a trading strategy revealed by an influencer, resonates deeply with those feeling left behind. Research even shows that victims of inequality tend to engage in greater risk-taking, a psychological response to the disparity between their current and desired financial states, which are, in turn, heightened by the same social media content.
From a behavioural finance perspective, platforms like gamified trading apps and social media tend to amplify some of the most potent psychological biases, Dr Gertjan Verdickt, lecturer in accounting and finance at the University of Auckland Business School, tells me. “Salience is a significant factor: the more sensational or extreme the content, the more likely it is to go viral, especially in online financial spaces. Research has shown that more salient assets have lower future returns. In other words, they underperform.” He adds that “people overestimate the likelihood of recent or vivid events, such as someone making a huge gain on cryptocurrency, and underestimate more mundane but statistically relevant outcomes.”
A particularly potent intersection of these trends can be found within the ‘manosphere’ — a collection of online communities centred on a particular type of male identity, often promoting ‘red pill’ ideology and a rejection of mainstream societal norms. Think, to varying degrees, Joe Rogan, Andrew Tate, Jordan Peterson. Within these spaces, traditional paths to success are often dismissed as rigged or undesirable — for normies or betas — leading to a focus on alternative income streams and rapid wealth accumulation as a means of achieving alpha status or individual freedom.
These podcasters, streamers and YouTubers (often all at the same time) have leveraged this narrative, promoting cryptocurrencies and speculative investments as tools for financial independence and a rejection of the perceived ‘matrix’. While not all financial advice within these spaces is necessarily fraudulent, it often encourages a high-risk, aggressive approach to money-making that aligns with the get-rich-quick, ‘rise and grind’ mentality. For young men feeling disenfranchised by conventional routes to success, this narrative can be particularly compelling. It frames financial speculation, especially in volatile assets like memecoins or options day trading, not just as a path to wealth, but as a defiant act, a way to reclaim agency and prove oneself in a world they believe is stacked against them. This merging of financial aspirations with a desire for masculine validation and social status fuels even greater risk tolerance.
Verdickt highlights this further: “Narratives that emphasise rapid wealth accumulation, self-made success and dominance resonate strongly with young men, especially in an economic environment where traditional status markers, like home ownership or stable careers, are harder to attain. These narratives can reinforce overconfidence — a well-documented gender gap in investing behaviour — and push individuals toward high-risk strategies. This ties into self-efficacy theory: if younger men are encouraged to believe that success is purely a function of mindset and hustle, they may take on excessive risk, thinking that they are immune to the odds. Unfortunately, research has shown that this overconfidence — and as a result overtrading — leads to worse outcomes.”
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Beyond the frenzy of speculative apps and influencers, many working New Zealanders are already investors, whether they actively realise it or not. KiwiSaver automatically enrols most eligible new employees aged 18–64, effectively turning them into long-term participants in the financial markets.
As you probably know from your own accounts, KiwiSaver offers a range of fund types, from conservative (lower risk, lower potential returns, heavy in cash and bonds) to growth and aggressive (higher risk, higher potential returns, heavily invested in shares and property). For most members, especially younger ones with decades until retirement, a higher-growth fund is generally recommended. This allows savings to benefit from the power of compounding returns and ride out market fluctuations over the long term.
Kristian James, head of distribution for Generate, a KiwiSaver scheme, highlights a common pitfall. “The most common mistake we see with KiwiSaver accounts is that the investor hasn’t thought about their fund type, or had any advice, so they’ve been in a default fund that wasn’t right for them and they haven’t maximised their returns.” He emphasises that for those with a long-term investment timeframe, a growth or aggressive fund has the most potential to deliver strong long-term returns, adding: “Being in the right type of fund can make a difference of thousands or even tens of thousands of dollars by retirement.”
But the automated nature of KiwiSaver can sometimes lull members into a false sense of security, or conversely, lead to panic during market downturns. And it doesn’t necessarily protect KiwiSaver investors from thinking they can time the market or game the system. Panic is a natural, emotional reaction to seeing your KiwiSaver balance dip, but as James advises, “We always go back to the message that it’s time in the market that counts, rather than timing the market. History shows that markets generally rebound, but you need to remain invested to take advantage of that recovery.” He says that while some members express concerns during market volatility, “after talking to us, most decide to stay the course, ride out the dip and wait for markets to return to growth. When you look at historical data, the benefits of staying invested versus the risks of switching funds are pretty convincing.”
For regular KiwiSaver contributors, market downturns present an opportunity. Your consistent contributions mean you’re engaging in dollar-cost averaging — buying more units in your fund when prices are low. This strategy averages out your purchase price over time and positions you for greater gains when the market eventually recovers. The key, then, is to stick with a strategy aligned with your long-term goals, exercise patience, and avoid making drastic changes based on short-term market noise.
Considering the abundance of online financial information, James emphasises the enduring role of professional financial advice: “There’s no shortage of information — or strong opinions — when it comes to investing. For many everyday Kiwis, especially younger investors, it can be overwhelming to work out what’s relevant to their goals, risk tolerance, and broader financial position. And with limited time or interest, many simply don’t know where to start.” He sees financial advice as critical in this environment. “For young New Zealanders, getting some support early in their KiwiSaver journey can make a meaningful difference. The earlier they get on track, the more opportunity they have to grow their wealth over time.”
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The rapid evolution of the digital investment landscape has left regulators scrambling. Bodies like New Zealand’s Financial Markets Authority (FMA), the International Organization of Securities Commissions or other national regulators such as the United States’ Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC), the United Kingdom’s Financial Conduct Authority (FCA) and the Australian Securities and Investments Commission (ASIC) are struggling with how to protect investors from pervasive risks without stifling innovation or accessibility.
Their responses range from issuing investor alerts and guidance for finfluencers to taking enforcement actions. The SEC, for example, has pursued cases against celebrities for unlawfully touting crypto assets without disclosing compensation, and has targeted crypto pyramid schemes and ‘relationship investment scams’ on social media. In the United Kingdom, the FCA has stepped up interventions, requiring financial promotions on social media to be approved by an authorised person and issuing numerous alerts for misleading ads. ASIC in Australia is focusing on corporate misconduct and insider trading, and the Australian government is passing a new Scams Prevention Framework bill that targets social media companies. In New Zealand, the FMA regularly updates its scam warnings and takes action against unlicensed providers.
But the global, decentralised nature of social media and cryptocurrencies presents immense regulatory challenges — not the least of which is a US president who profits from his own memecoin that is effectively used as a crypto-corruption platform. Finfluencers often operate outside traditional financial frameworks, making enforcement difficult. The line between harmless entertainment and actionable fraud is often blurred, particularly with meme stocks where collective enthusiasm, rather than explicit lies, drives market movements. Regulators are essentially playing catch-up, trying to define ‘finfluencer’ and apply existing laws to a constantly evolving digital environment, while also pushing for greater disclosure, transparency and investor education.
All of this shows how the democratisation of stock markets through apps is a double-edged sword. On one side, it offers unprecedented access, potentially allowing a broader segment of the population to participate in wealth creation. For New Zealanders, it’s opened pathways to investment previously dominated by traditional brokers.
On the other, it has generated a wave of speculative behaviour, driven by psychological manipulation, social media hype and a new sense of economic urgency. For young men in particular, influenced by narratives of quick wins and anti-establishment masculinity, the line between investing and gambling has become perilously thin. The market, once seen as a tool for slow, sustainable long-term growth, is increasingly viewed by some as a last-ditch opportunity to escape a future that feels economically predetermined.
“The shift toward speculative assets as a kind of ‘last hope’ for financial stability is telling,” says Verdickt. “In the New Zealand context, where young people face high housing costs, stagnant wages and limited upward mobility, it’s understandable why crypto and similar assets might appeal. However, if too many people rely on speculative vehicles as their primary wealth-building strategy, it could have long-term societal consequences: increased financial fragility, disillusionment with traditional institutions and growing intergenerational resentment.”
He also notes that this increased participation, while seemingly positive, also has concerning features. “Lower barriers to entry [can] encourage broader participation in capital markets,” he says. “But this access comes with significant risks. Without guard rails, it could exacerbate inequality: those with fewer resources are more vulnerable to volatility, and the gamified design of many platforms encourages users to trade rather than invest for the long term. In that sense, participation doesn’t always mean empowerment. Furthermore, it leads to weaker price discovery and an overall increase in market volatility. So there are upsides — financial market participation — but also downsides — increased riskiness.”
A further risk is the uneasiness of the landscape itself. While some true believers see cryptocurrency (and the underlying blockchain technology) as not just a financial mechanism, but a paradigm-shifting technology that will fundamentally change the way the world works, others believe that quantum computing, with its power to break current encryption standards by reverse-engineering private keys, will render currencies which require digital passwords to be all but worthless. In such a fast-moving technological landscape, subject to constant change, the less expert and more vulnerable investors will always be at greater risk of losing out when bubbles burst or values crash.
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As the democratisation of financial instruments continues to expand, the challenge for regulators, educators and individuals alike will be to harness the genuine benefits of accessibility, protecting each other from the hazards of speculation and deceit, while ensuring that the economic opportunities of the market (which are real, and on average, in the long run, give better returns than real estate) are not available only to the already wealthy.
While watching all these investment influencer videos over the past couple of months, I often had a scene from the Martin Scorsese film The Wolf of Wall Street rolling through my mind. The experienced stockbroker character, played by Matthew McConaughey, is explaining how Wall Street works to new player Jordan Belfort (Leonardo DiCaprio). The punters buy a stock at $8 and it goes to $16 and they think they’re rich, he tells him. And they are —“on paper”, he says. The trick is to never let them take the money out, never let them make the money real. It’s only the money still in the game that pays the two of them, the brokers, who get the actual cash. “Keep the clients on the Ferris wheel, and it goes. The park is open 24/7, 365, every decade, every goddamn century.” But back when the movie was set, in the 1980s, the park wasn’t truly open 24/7. We’re only now starting to find out what happens when it is.
