It is past midnight in Mirpur. Raihan, 19, unlocks his phone — not for the first time tonight. The YouTube Shorts feed loads in under a second. He has a chemistry exam in six hours. He knows this. But the next video has already started playing.

“I told myself 10 minutes. Then it was 2am,” he says, without particular guilt. “Does that count as studying, or am I just fooling myself? I also watched three videos on organic chemistry revision, so I’m not entirely sure.”

The global conversation about Gen Z and short-form video tends to be clear: it is an addiction, attention spans are collapsing, and someone should do something.

In Bangladesh, the reality is messier. Here, the same platforms — YouTube, Facebook, and TikTok — that are measurably rewiring young brains are also, for many young people, a genuine economic ladder. 

Designed to keep you scrolling

To understand why Raihan cannot stop at 10 minutes, you first have to understand that stopping was never the design. Short-form video platforms operate on what psychologists call a variable reward schedule — the same mechanism that makes slot machines so difficult to walk away from. You never know if the next video will be dull or extraordinary, so you keep swiping for that next hit.

The neurological impact is deeply documented. Studies indexed in the US National Centre for Biotechnology Information (NCBI) indicate that binge-watching short-form videos creates a “variable reward loop” that triggers rapid dopamine spikes, heavily conditioning the brain to seek instant gratification. 

This hyperstimulation alters the brain’s reward processing, reducing focus and making everyday, slower-paced tasks feel profoundly boring. 

Average attention span on a mobile device, once measured at around two and a half minutes, has now fallen to under 50 seconds.

Globally, reports indicate that Gen Z users spend between 2.8 and 6 hours daily across all social platforms. When it comes to short-form video, Gen Z users (under 26) spend an average of 152 minutes (2.5 hours) to over three hours per day on TikTok alone, which is roughly five times more than older demographics.

With cheap broadband penetration reaching the alleys of secondary towns, Tk500 Wi-Fi deals in every neighbourhood, and affordable nightly data packs tailored for students, the barrier to entry for this infinite loop has virtually vanished.

The consumer, the creator, and the trapped

Raihan is studying at Daffodil International College. He opens YouTube Shorts 12 to 15 times a day — his own estimate, though the number is probably higher. He has tried setting a screen time limit twice. Both times, he overrode it within a day.

“The app asks me if I want more time. I always say yes. It takes one tap,” he says. “The limit doesn’t feel real.”

He scrolls during meals, in the bathroom, in the gap between the azan and actually getting up for Fajr prayers. He is not proud of this. He is also not sure if it is entirely a problem.

Twenty-two-year-old Eva from Narayanganj has a different relationship with the feed — she is on the other side of it. She has been making Facebook Reels for 14 months, mostly lifestyle and cooking content. Her follower count sits around 40,000. She earned Tk11,000 last month from a brand collaboration with a local kitchenware company.

“People say we are wasting time,” she says. “But I spend four hours a day studying the feed — what content works, what the algorithm is promoting this week, what hooks are making people stop scrolling. If I sat in a corporate office doing the exact same research on consumer trends, they’d call it data analytics and pay me a hefty salary. Why is it ‘wasting time’ just because I do it on my phone?”

Eva is part of a rapidly expanding industry. The influencer marketing segment in Bangladesh’s “orange economy” has grown exponentially, surging from approximately 0.1 billion in 2017 to an estimated 7.1 billion by 2025.

Industry estimates suggest the local market size ranges between $35 million and $140 million, fuelled by a broader digital ad spend market that is projected to reach $3.8 billion.

The third voice comes from a different vantage point. Wasi, 17, is in his second year of college. He does not create content. He is not trying to. He simply cannot stop watching. He estimates his daily screen time at five to six hours, almost entirely short-form video.

“I know it is bad. But when I try to read a chapter of a textbook, my mind keeps drifting after a few minutes. It was not like this in class seven or eight,” he says. 

Beyond TikTok: The local marketplace of reels

The global conversation about this issue often centres on TikTok as the primary villain. In Bangladesh, the platform map is different. The Bangladesh Youth Leadership Centre’s (BYLC) Youth Matters surveys reveal a heavy reliance on social media for current affairs and political engagement among young Bangladeshis.

Their data show a massive news dependency: between 74% and 84% of young respondents rely heavily on social media platforms for updates on current events in Bangladesh. 

When it comes to preferred platforms, Facebook remains the most dominant social media platform, with over 70% of young users active on it, followed by YouTube, Instagram, WhatsApp, and TikTok.

This environment also shapes their political sentiment. While young people are politically divided, social media serves as a major arena for civic participation. 

However, there is a dark side to this digital town square: over 70% of youths have previously reported feeling unsafe expressing their political opinions openly online.

The science of the swipe

A 2026 systematic review published in the Journal of Adolescence found that short video addiction significantly undermines attentional control, focus, span, and concentration. 

The same review, however, found that self-control functions as the strongest protective factor against addictive use — not screen time limits, not platform bans, but an individual’s developed capacity for self-regulation.

This matters because it complicates the most popular solution: just use the phone less. 

Research also shows that individuals with higher boredom proneness are disproportionately vulnerable to short-video addiction — meaning the problem is not simply about discipline, but about how young people have been conditioned to relate to unstructured time.

Mental health consequences compound this. Among Gen Z globally, 73% report that social media negatively affects their mental health. Around 61% report sleep disruption from late-night scrolling. Anxiety symptoms affect 45% of heavy users who spend more than four hours daily on platforms. 

No easy exit

It is worth returning to Raihan’s original question. He watched chemistry revision videos at 2am before his exam. Does that count? The honest answer is: it counts as exactly the kind of grey area that makes this generation so difficult to read cleanly.

Eva is building a livelihood from the same mechanism that is disrupting Wasi’s ability to concentrate on a page.

Wasi cannot tell whether his brain has genuinely changed or if his textbooks have simply failed to compete.

Raihan is both victim and beneficiary of an algorithm that does not distinguish between the two.

What is clear from the research is that the platforms are not neutral. They were designed, with scientific precision, to make stopping feel like the difficult choice.

What is less clear — and what no study has yet resolved — is whether an entire generation raised inside these systems can build the self-regulation required to manage them.