HOW TO EARN READER TRUST

The Law of Trust’s Throne

It was just after midnight when I woke, the quiet darkness of my room contrasting sharply with the anxiety gripping my chest. I went straight to the laptop, the glow from the screen harsh against my tired eyes. Opening Substack, my stomach clenched as I reviewed the analytics: declining open rates, fewer clicks, and a deafening silence where engagement had once thrived.

The brutal truth stared back at me—my grip on their interest was slipping. Each email opened less, each essay ignored more. I had lost their trust, and what stung deeper was that no one had the honesty to confront me directly, to tell me clearly why they had stopped caring.

I knew precisely when it had begun. Believing I was elevating my writing, I’d aimed for literary grandeur, dense prose in homage to the greats I revered—Shakespeare, McCarthy—thinking that Substack, a platform of writers, would embrace my ambition. But the data was precise: fewer likes, familiar names instead of new voices, diminishing returns for my efforts. It was painfully apparent that I'd misunderstood my readers and betrayed their trust by prioritizing my aspirations over their needs.

Frustration turned quickly to anger. Here I was, pouring my soul and intellect into every piece, determined to elevate minds, and in return, facing silence. On impulse, driven by desperation and wounded pride, I typed a furious Substack Note: “What the fuck am I doing wrong? Why aren't you engaging anymore?” It was raw, emotional—unprofessional perhaps—but honest.

The weight of failure pressed heavily on my chest, momentum vanishing in a sickening drop. I was left frantically scrambling, enslaved by the numbers, desperate to regain lost trust.

"Talent means nothing if no one will follow you."

Beneath the collapse lies a law written in blood and ambition: skill and labor are wasted without credibility; trust is the root currency of power. I had every gift—charisma, talent, opportunity—yet I ignored the Law of Trust’s Throne.

I gave away my throne to the algorithm’s fickle favor, to advisors who took control of my voice, to a parasitic audience that cheered only while I self-destructed. Now I learn a harsh truth that countless fallen kings of content learned before: to abandon the throne of trust is to invite ruin.

The Traitor Within: Betrayal and Doubt

The first battle for the throne of trust is fought within. Every creator harbors a potential traitor: self-doubt. In the privacy of midnight, doubt whispers that you are not enough, that you must change yourself to please the crowd or chase the trend. In a moment of weakness, the creator abandons his voice.

I betrays his principles for clout, trades authenticity for approval. This self-abandonment is an internal coup–the rightful king yielding to an impostor self molded by fear.

Such betrayal often starts small. A writer tones down her unique style because a few critics sneered; a YouTuber fakes an exaggerated persona to emulate the latest viral star. These compromises appear strategic, but they chip away at the audience’s trust.

Every time a creator tries to be someone they are not, the foundation of credibility cracks. Trust erodes–first the audience’s confidence in the creator, and ultimately the creator’s trust in herself. In the end, the creator’s voice is unrecognizable, a mouthpiece for someone else’s expectations. The internal traitor has won without a fight.

Consider the legend of Winston Churchill, a man of immense talent whose early career was nearly destroyed by a loss of trust. In 1915, as First Lord of the Admiralty, Churchill’s overambitious strategy led to the disaster at Gallipoli. His allies turned on him; he was demoted to obscurity, left lamenting, “I am finished!”.

All his genius and labor meant nothing–no one would follow a leader they no longer believed in. For years, “the ghosts of Gallipoli” haunted Churchill, rising to damn his reputation each time he spoke. Talent, vision, eloquence–none of it mattered once trust was broken.

It was only after decades of proving himself through steadfast warnings and actions that Churchill earned back the nation’s trust and ascended to lead Britain through World War II. The lesson from this “British Bulldog” is timeless: betrayal of trust, even by one’s misjudgment, can cast the longest shadow.

Law I: Trust Must Be Earned, Not Assumed.
No amount of skill or fame will save the creator who forgets this.

To earn trust is to anchor your power in bedrock. No shortcut, no hack, no “viral magic” can replace the slow, deliberate work of building credibility. Every promise kept, every value held under pressure, every truth told even when inconvenient–these are the bricks of a throne no one can topple.

The creator who endures is the one who chooses substance over shimmer, who would rather be believed than momentarily popular. He knows trust is his only legitimate crown.

The Usurpers Without: Trials by Fire

Even a creator true to herself faces enemies at the gates. External forces constantly test the throne of trust. In the chaotic bazaar of modern platforms, charlatans and algorithms conspire to dethrone the unwary.

The noise is deafening: trends flare and die in hours, outrage cycles churn endlessly, and audiences can turn from devoted to vicious overnight. To survive, the creator must recognize these tests for what they are–attempts to usurp the throne–and respond with unflinching resolve.

Platform chaos is one such usurper. I experienced this firsthand during my time promoting music as a rapper on Facebook. Initially, the platform felt like an ally; engagement was immediate, powerful, and consistent.

But then, without warning or clarity, the algorithm shifted. My reach tanked overnight, leaving me confused and devastated. It felt personal, as if Facebook intended to squeeze me out of doing what I loved. Instead of fighting, I quietly accepted defeat, allowing the algorithm's whim to rule my future.

Such submission to platform whims is common. Social networks and content platforms, such as YouTube, Instagram, TikTok, and others, are fickle kings, ruling by algorithmic decree. Recall the great “Pivot to Video” fiasco in digital media: seduced by Facebook’s inflated video metrics, countless publishers fired writers and lost their way trying to “do what Facebook wanted.”

Views plummeted; the promised rewards never came. Those who trusted the platform over their own audience’s needs found themselves stranded–journalists out of jobs, publications shuttered. The algorithm betrayed them, as it has so many creators who chase each new platform trend at the expense of credibility.

The lesson rings clear: The throne of trust cannot be built on a platform you don’t control. If you abdicate your content decisions to an algorithm, you make that algorithm the king. And when the algorithm changes (as it inevitably will), you are left with nothing but the echo of what you sacrificed.

Algorithms are not the only usurpers. There are also the parasitic audiences–those crowds that feast on a creator’s misery rather than their message. I've encountered a subtler betrayal in my own Substack journey.

Striving to elevate my writing, I poured intense effort into crafting dense, literary content, aiming to rise above mediocrity. The unexpected result was alienation—my audience shrank, engagement dwindled, and feedback evaporated, leaving me isolated. In response, I decided to segment my content, offering lighter, simplified posts to cater to a broader audience while preserving more in-depth material for a dedicated core audience in The McCall Canon. It is a compromise born from necessity rather than choice, and its long-term effectiveness remains uncertain.

Witness the downfall of live-streamers seduced by their toxic fans. One gaming streamer, who had been celebrated in his early career, pivoted to shocking stunts to keep viewers interested. His audience dangled donations like bait, each reward pushing him further into self-destruction: drink after drink, outrage after outrage.

The man who once had 500,000 subscribers became a spectacle of pity — a waste of life in the eyes of his former fans, his legacy in tatters. Another streamer earned infamy for raging and lashing out. He cultivated drama and controversy, only to attract a faction of viewers who wanted to see him fail.

They swarmed online forums, dedicated not to supporting him but to ruining his life for entertainment. They doxxed him, sent police to his home, and amplified his every mistake. The more he tried to appease or avoid them, the more paranoid and disconnected he grew, until authentic engagement with his faithful fans became impossible. These creators handed their trust to the mob, and the mob devoured them.

Law II: Guard Your Throne – Never Surrender Your Voice or Values.
Every time you appease a liar, an algorithm, or a toxic crowd, you carve away a piece of your power.

To guard trust is an act of war. The creator must stand as the uncompromising sentinel at the gates of her kingdom. I have felt the temptation myself, specifically with Substack Notes.

Observing how superficial, cheerful, or artificially supportive posts achieved explosive engagement perplexed and frustrated me. Driven by curiosity, I tested this trend myself, rewriting a popular Note in my authentic voice. Immediately, engagement spiked. Though validating, it left me conflicted: success had come through imitation, not original conviction.

Do not let metrics seduce you into betraying quality. Please do not let trolls bait you into diluting your stance. Do not permit hustlers to “growth hack” your soul in exchange for short-term gains.

Protect your voice, as a king protects his heir, because it is the heir to your legacy. When the winds of chaos howl, the trusted creator holds fast. She communicates openly with her audience about changes and challenges (rather than spinning or lying).

She makes measured adaptations but never forfeits her core mission. Integrity becomes her shield, consistency her sword. The world may be in chaos, but inside her realm, the laws are clear and unyielding.

History and modernity are littered with those who failed this test. They are warnings on our path. We see the once-great influencers who chased clout until no one believed them.

We see artists who signed their voice away to controlling managers or labels, only to fade when they could no longer speak their truth. But we also see the few-the very few–who withstood the temptations and assaults, and in doing so, turned trust into a weapon.

Weaponizing Trust: Power and Legacy

When trust is earned and guarded, it becomes more than a defense—it becomes a sword. Trust can be weaponized to achieve what talent alone cannot. In the hands of a wise creator, trust rallies armies of supporters, topples gatekeepers, and carves out an immortal legacy.

This is not the cynical weaponization of manipulating a crowd; it is the strategic deployment of credibility and loyalty to reshape the landscape in the creator’s favor. Those who have achieved this level of mastery are read like figures of myth and legend in the modern age.

Consider Taylor Swift, a solo creator in the arena of music, who found her life’s work owned by corporate powers. Rather than accept defeat, she turned her fan trust into a battering ram. When music moguls bought the rights to her early albums, Swift declared publicly that “neither of these men did anything to create the relationship I have with my fans”.

In that line, she invoked the Law of Trust’s Throne: her connection with her audience was sovereign, beyond the reach of any label’s leverage. Then she proved it. Swift rallied her supporters to besiege the fortress of industry–fans bombarded the new owners with criticism, #IStandWithTaylor trended worldwide, and calls flooded their offices until business as usual became impossible.

Even politicians took up her cause. Faced with this onslaught, the powers relented on key demands. Ultimately, Swift re-recorded her entire catalogue on her terms, nullifying the enemy’s prize. It was reputational warfare waged with the fiercest weapon of all: authentic fan loyalty.

She earned that loyalty through years of genuine storytelling and gratitude, guarded it by refusing to “be a good little girl and shut up” when ordered, and then weaponized it to claim her rightful throne. In Swift’s triumph, we see how trust, once amassed, can outmaneuver even billion-dollar empires.

“Earn trust, earn trust, earn trust. Then you can worry about the rest.” — Seth Godin.

Trust is the great force multiplier. A creator with a trusted audience can defy conventional limits. Platforms come and go, but if your followers trust you, they will seek you out wherever you go.

Opportunities dry up, but if partners trust you, new doors will open. In contrast, a creator who relies on hype over trust is like a king with an army of mercenaries–the day the gold runs out, they vanish. Faithful followers are not mercenaries; they are believers. And belief is the bedrock of legacy.

We see this clearly in the rise of independent creators across fields. Writers and journalists, tired of volatile newsrooms and dwindling institutional trust, have struck out on their own. They carry with them the only asset that truly mattered: the trust of their readership.

Platforms like Substack and Patreon have enabled these lone voices to monetize that trust directly. Journalists with established personal brands are prioritizing their audience relationships over corporate security, and it is paying off. Audiences have proven they will follow the writers they trust from old publications into new, independent ventures, often unsubscribing from legacy outlets to support the individual.

As one media observer noted, there are now “concrete examples of little empires that have grown out of Substack”. These are mini-kingdoms built on trust: readers who believe in a creator’s voice enough to fund it, spread it, even defend it. The creators who seize this power build something far more enduring than a fleeting spot on a trending page; they make a legacy and change the very structures of their industry.

Even within the traditional system, trust elevates the solo creator into a legend. Dave Chappelle, at the height of his comedic reign, famously walked away from a $50 million TV deal rather than violate the trust he had with his audience and himself. The network pressured him to push his comedy in directions that felt wrong–laughs at the cost of integrity.

Chappelle sensed that continuing would turn him into a fraud with a catchphrase, so he vanished to preserve his soul. Critics called him crazy; fans were confused. But years later, when he returned on his terms, the world understood: Dave Chappelle had guarded the throne.

He kept the trust, earning a near-mythic respect for choosing principle over quick profit. That trust translated into record-breaking comedy specials and a position of unassailable influence in his field. By denying others the right to rule his voice, he ultimately ruled an even larger kingdom–one where his name is synonymous with authenticity.

The Law of Trust’s Throne spares no one. Break it, and you become a cautionary tale; keep it, and you join the ranks of the greats. The pages of history and the frontiers of YouTube alike tell the same story.

It is not the smartest, the fastest, or the flashiest creator who prevails – it is the one who commands trust. Trust from an audience, trust in one’s voice, trust earned and wielded with honor.

Ascension or Exile

I end where I began: alone in the darkness, faced with the stark truth of a choice. Every echo of analytics, every tempting whisper promising quick gains, asks the same relentless question: Will I surrender my throne, or will I claim it firmly? This is my moment of decision—I either kneel or rise.

There is no mercy here, no compromise. Trust is absolute: you have it or you lose it entirely. Without trust, I surrender my fate to platforms, algorithms, and fickle audiences. With it, I command my destiny, set the terms of my creativity, and lead authentically.

My brutal clarity now is this: I will not let them or their algorithms rule my reputation. I refuse to become a shadow king of hype or hollow praise. My voice will remain mine, unaltered by fleeting trends or shifting metrics.

I vow to myself and my readers that authenticity will be my foundation. I will deliver quality, provoke thought, command respect, and enlighten rather than merely entertain. My purpose is clear; my resolve, unshakeable.

The echoes fade, and dawn approaches. Rising from my chair, determination burning bright, I declare my throne reclaimed. My words will be iron, my vision unwavering. The crowd may gather slowly, but this time, driven by trust alone, they will remain. The foundation will hold firm through every storm.

Trust is not merely a feeling—it is my throne, the seat of my empire. The law has been stated, my path illuminated by fire and experience.

Rule the technology, or it will rule you.