It's important to understand that I watch a lot of YouTube. I mean, a lot of YouTube. I watch YouTube videos the way other people watch television. I watch YouTube like it was my job. Always on somewhere in the apartment, always streaming, filling the space with the familiar warmth of voices and light. It's playing music when I'm reading and running through a rabbit hole of playlists when I'm working and debuting must-see programming when a friend has a new video out.

My watchtime would disgust you. I know this because it disgusted me when I saw it. At time of writing, it looked like this:

(To be transparent, I also put on live streams for my dog to watch when I leave the house. So this is a shared viewing history between myself and a chihuahua.)

The other thing you should probably understand about me is that I love video essays. I say that with some hesitation, of course. I'm well aware that the term “video essay” usually conjures images of heavily produced, overly written, many-hours-long videos about politics. It may also make you think of insular, intra-platform drama or shockingly in-depth retrospectives on children's media. All of that (and worse) is representative of the medium of people writing essays that they produce as video content and upload to the internet.

Despite this somewhat dubious reputation, I’m enamored with the video essay as a medium. I’m enamored with people who create art to discuss art. Because that's the kind of videos I spend my time hunting down, watching, rewatching, and recommending. I think they're cool. I think it's cool to script, shoot, and edit a video about something you're passionate about. That anybody can pick up some basic, consumer-level equipment and teach themselves the skills to craft a video essay in their bedroom. That they can shoot in a closet on their phone and express something about a comic book or a movie or an anime that they care about.

You know what? No. That shit, if you'll pardon my cringe, is cool as hell. It can be crunchy and lo-fi and amateur, but that's part of the charm. Seeing people with something to say carving out a medium and a space to say it is so invigorating to me.

Of course, I love the usual suspects. Jacob Geller. Lola Sebastian. F.D Signifier. Noah Caldwell-Gervais. The Leftist Cooks. Eyepatch Wolf. CJ The X. They're the sort whose work and links are circulated around different circles online. You've probably seen one or more of these videos pop up in your recommended feed, given the nature of viral successes. It's not a bad thing, of course. I find all of these people to be insightful and talented. It just feels a bit obvious (at least to me, who's constantly on YouTube) to write a newsletter about their videos today.

Beyond the usual suspects, however, there are so, so many creators out there who make things that I love. Some are academics who bring a rigorous method to their work, others critics who bring a poignant clarity to their subjects. Some are just normal people who love what they do. I find each of them absolutely captivating in their own ways.

That's why I want to share some of their work with you. It's a pretty varied list that's representative of my general interests and tastes. So if you'll indulge me, here are some of my favorite video essays.

What Is(n’t) Lost Media? - A Surprisingly Complicated Question

We're going to start off with a video game essayist, because that's the side of YouTube I spend the most time on.

Zuldim is a thoughtful voice in the games criticism space. Probably most visible for his in-depth retrospective on the Hitman series, I greatly appreciate his essays on horror and horror-adjacent projects. His recent, deeply empathic double take on Doki Doki Literature Club and Slay the Princess reignited my long dormant love for DDLC (stay tuned for more on that), offering a fresher perspective on the game's themes than I had seen in a few years. Likewise, his essay on the indie dev Akuma Kira digs into the subtle terror and humanity at the heart of Kira's truly eclectic catalog.

That said, Zuldim's measured exploration of the lost media space is absolutely fascinating, and likely my favorite piece. He poses a lot of interesting questions about the contours of lost media, how we describe it, define it, and engage with it. It's less an essay and more of a thought experiment, to borrow a turn of phrase, but I come back to it every few months and find something to chew on every time.

If you have even a passing interest in lost media, it's absolutely worth your time.

Japan: The Platform Superpower

Now it's time for anime.

Pause and Select (to be called “Joe” from here on out, since that's his name on Twitter) is my favorite little oasis in the sea of AniTube. There are some other great channels, like Stevem, The Cynic Clinic, and Study of Swords, but a lot of the landscape is…not for me, to put it charitably. But Joe brings a genuine curiosity and sense of humor to his subjects that I find really refreshing.

With about a decade of essays under his belt, Joe interrogates a wide range of topics from a more rigorous, academic lens. Some of my favorite videos include his series on apocalypses in Japanese media, a four-part exploration on the themes and ideas expressed within the isekai genre, and a really enlightening essay on Romance of the Three Kingdoms and the lasting impact of Kongming on Japanese popular culture. His research grounds anime and manga in specific critical and historical contexts that tend to be missing from broader, non-academic conversations.

Of all Joe's essays, the piece on communication platforms and media proliferation in collaboration with Mark Steinberg is absolutely fascinating. You should have watched it already. Close this email and watch it. Like, right now.

The Complete History of the Gävle Goat

One of the things I really respond to when engaging with video essays is the willingness to be vulnerable. That may sound kind of invasive at first, as if I'm looking for people who put their entire lives on the page and later screen for my entertainment. But really, when I talk about vulnerability, I mean creators who are willing to be open, and even wrong, as they work through their thoughts.

Jeffiot, or just Jeff, is one of my favorite creators in that respect. You may have seen his viral video on the origins of the popular trumpet-playing skeleton .gif, which would give you a taste for Jeff's style. He often poses a question (to himself as much as you and I) about something that interests him, then proceeds to bring you down the rabbit hole to find the answer. The answer is sometimes exciting, sometimes disappointing, and sometimes, at least in the case of the skeleton .gif, a melancholy reminder that the collective digital refuse of online life has real, human stories behind it all.

While having a kind of sharp, sometimes cranky online persona, Jeff is a very curious person who's willing to sit with his own discomfort. He is a filmmaker who creates online alternate reality games (most notably Ten Tapes) and film criticism (such as his equally acidic and earnest critique of Toy Story 4), existing in those spaces between artist and critic that allow him to be conflicted in public. I really admire that about his work.

That's why I recommend his lengthy, well-researched, perhaps overly personal essay on the history of the Gävle Goat and its very specific place in local Swedish discourse. Jeff just lets you sit with him in his unease as he tries to understand each side of the goat-related controversy and find his position amid the voices of those involved. It's not hard-hitting journalism, but it is a really relatable look at his own inner tensions. I think it's worth your time.

What Are We Doing to The Crow?

So, I have to be honest here. It's impossible to choose my favorite Yhara Zayd essay. Every essay is my favorite essay. Be it her exploration of the Candyman films, the misunderstood tragedy of actress Brittany Murphy, or the emotional catharsis of body horror, Zayd is mandatory viewing whenever a new video drops.

That may sound like effusive praise, but Zayd is my favorite film essayist. There are other great film channels out there but Zayd is one of the strongest critical voices among them. When speaking of films she loves, she is so funny and warm and open in describing her personal relationship to them. When speaking of films that fall short or frustrate her, she's still generous and enlightening, giving me more to think about than just the missteps. Her willingness to get deep into her feelings (good, bad, and ugly) brings a richness to the discussion that I really treasure.

There are a dozen videos I could recommend, but I want to share her essay on The Crow franchise. It is a well-researched and loving criticism of everything to do with the series, coming from a place of deep personal love and respect for the comics and original film. Watch it if you haven't already, and share it with someone you love.

The Infinite Review: Neon Genesis Evangelion

The Infinite Review is a charming pop culture and comedy channel, dedicated to reviewing “everything in the universe.” This usually means watching a group of friends make recipes from a Doctor Who cookbook in slapdash cosplay or playing every fishing game released on the Sega Dreamcast. It's cozy and fun, with an intermittent release schedule that makes every new video feel like a special treat.

Then Neon Genesis Evangelion came to Netflix a few years ago, and The Infinite Review released this piece. Clocking in at a brisk thirteen minutes, this personal look at how the heavy commercialization and media saturation of the series over the last two decades casts a strange shadow on Evangelion. The loss of intimacy in our relationships with art in the age of instantaneous social media discourse creates a tension that I often feel. It's hard not to feel it with something as intensely personal and formative yet ubiquitous as Evangelion.

This essay captures that innate tension in a way that I often find difficult to articulate. It's good for art to be accessible. It's hard to see art become so impossibly large that it contorts into something that feels empty and commercial. You want to share art with people. You want to experience art in private and hold it close to you, where it can still feel like it was made for you.

All of this to say that I return to this essay a lot.

Who's Lila? — Story Explained

If YouTube was a video game, I would have to square up against two final bosses: FlawedPeacock and BHultra.

These two creators represent a specific genre of essay that I'm personally attracted to, that being Bearded Guy Talking About Stuff In His Room. I know what you're probably thinking, but bear with me. They are very much every-men, average people talking about their interests in-depth. Each creator takes on a casual tone and presentation with his work, and speaks to the viewer in a relatable way. They also create goofy skits for a bit of levity, featuring recurring characters and channel lore that builds with every upload. The final unifying criteria is the level of research, detail, and analysis employed in every essay, culminating in many-hour, often multi-part videos on games or movies. These are essays that you take in chapters, because you will have days of content to work your way through.

You can see why I like this kind of stuff. I love to hear people talk about the things they love. It isn't slick or professional, but it doesn't need to have beautiful editing to convey something that matters to them.

While I think BHultra is a fascinating creator with a wide breadth of personal, introspective videos that come from a very earnest place, his (admittedly self-aware) sarcastic persona can create some unnecessary friction. I do think his body of work is great, in a very DIY 2000s kid with an absurd sense of humor kind of way.

So if that interests you, I think he's absolutely worth your time. I recommend his video on professional wrestler Bray Wyatt, a massive seven-hour odyssey into the early years of Wyatt’s career. If you're into games essays, his deeply autobiographical, ten-hour look at the relationship between indie horror games and YouTube is a beast worth taking on.

In terms of my whole-hearted recommendation, I have to go with FlawedPeacock. He's a sensitive but playful creator who cares a lot about audience. His work is also relentlessly detailed, covering every aspect of the subject and offering his analysis and observations along the way. Outside research supplements his takes in a way that helps support the ideas without wading too far into the weeds of academic theory. It's breezy and fun to watch, like hanging out and talking about movies with a friend. I don't always agree with the takeaway (nor do I expect to), but I enjoy the ride nonetheless.

FlawedPeacock's methodical breakdown and analysis of the Lynchian detective game Who's Lila? is basically mine and my girlfriend's emotional support eight-hour video essay. I return to it when I'm looking to have a chill day from my work-from-home job, putting it on in the morning and letting it run until it's time to clock out. My dog naps to it. Sometimes I nap to it. I've seen it so many times that it just feels comforting to rewatch.

Talking about art doesn't always have to be high-stakes, you know? There's a place for those with rough edges, taking the time to learn a craft and express themselves through it as they go. That's worth engaging with on its own merits, too.

That's all I have for now. I may pick this up another time, with more essays I love. And I have a lot more to share, too. If you have any favorites of your own, leave them in a comment. I'd appreciate it.