Somewhere between the collapse of corporate tone and the rise of TikTok office humour, a new species of worker was born.
Not just employee, and not quite an influencer. An amalgamation of the two.
A creature who can file an expense report, lead a client meeting, and also film a chaotic “accidentally left my Teams mic on” skit that racks up 800k views before lunch.
Welcome to the era of employee-as-brand.
The seductive new model where staff aren’t just labour—they’re narrative infrastructure. Micro-IP inside a larger brand portfolio. Humans as cultural distribution channels.
The old “work in exchange for wage” model feels Victorian in comparison. Now, you’re paid in salary, benefits, and the subtle pressure to go viral for the company LinkedIn.
The wildest part is that it works. And it works a little too well.
Because employees are the most potent brand storytellers we have.
They’re messy, charming, unpredictable, chaotic. Basically everything corporate comms will never allow itself to be. They make work look fun and culture feel alive. They unleash something corporations have been trying (and failing) to manufacture for years: desire.
When people see a workplace where everyone is laughing, pranking, fit-checking, roasting their boss, and making memes about the printer, it triggers something dangerous. It makes you want to be there. It makes you horny for work.
This is libidinal energy. The desires, fantasies, and projections that get activated when you see a workplace that looks like a sitcom you want to be cast in.
The employee-as-brand model doesn’t just show you what the company does. It shows you who you could be inside it. But behind the perfectly chaotic TikToks lies a much more complex system.
Turning employees into content assets comes with pipelines, guidelines, risks, and a level of identity gymnastics most HR departments are absolutely not equipped to handle. It’s not “cute, let’s make a video about everyone’s lunches.” It’s psychological architecture. It’s operational machinery. It’s a precarious dance with boundary collapse.
So before you go all-in on this kind of strategy, let’s break down the good, the bad, and the ugly.
The good: When employee-as-brand actually works
In the best-case scenario, this model is genuinely empowering. Employees get visibility. Influence. Portfolio pieces. Proof they can create content, communicate clearly, and represent the brand. Crucial skills in a world where every job now involves some level of public-facing storytelling.
Done well, this creates:
Real career leverage
Creative outlets inside the workplace
A workplace that feels alive, expressive, modern
Recognition for cultural contributions, not just KPIs
Talent pipelines where employees are trained like creators
It’s a win-win. The brand gets cultural capital. The employee gets social capital. Everyone thrives. But only if it’s built right.
The bad: The gamification of human beings
Here’s where the rot creeps in. When you turn employees into brand assets, the participation becomes gamified. Who made the top-performing TikTok this month? Who’s the breakout “office personality”? Who’s the face of the brand this quarter?
Suddenly visibility becomes a currency. And, like any currency, it creates pressure.
Pressure to perform. Pressure to be “on.” Pressure to produce content that aligns with your persona, even on days you hate your job, or want to be left alone. God FORBID you have an ugly day and don’t feel like livestreaming your shenanigans to the world.
Companies love to say participation is “optional,” but we all know how workplace dynamics work. The people who play the game are rewarded. The people who don’t eventually look like they’re not part of the culture. That’s lowkey giving soft coercion.
The ugly: Identity collapse and the psychic toll
This is the part no one wants to talk about. When your employer turns you into a character, you’re performing a self. Not just doing your job. You must create a curated, meme-able, brand-safe version of you.
And that impacts identity.
Where does the employee end and the content persona begin? What happens if your content goes viral for the wrong reasons? Who protects you from backlash? What if your online “work self” bleeds into your real personal brand? Who owns your likeness? Your ideas? The storylines you created?
Without clear boundaries, this model can tip into exploitation very quickly. People aren’t props. They’re not mascots. They’re not charisma vending machines.
If companies want to unleash libidinal energy, they need to be ready for the emotional responsibility that comes with it.
So then, how do you do it ethically?
If brands want to build this model without ruining people’s lives, they need more than vibes. They need infrastructure. Here’s what that COULD look like:
Opt-in participation: No pressure. No eyebrow raises. No “culture fit” judgement.
Creative support: Content kits. Storylines. Templates. Scripts. A pipeline that removes creative burden without killing authenticity.
Training + upskilling: Media training. Camera confidence. Editing basics. Creator economy context. If you want employees to act like creators, give them the tools.
Clear IP rights: Who owns the content? The persona? The ideas? Spell it out. No ambiguity.
Safety nets for backlash; Crisis protocols. Legal protection. Emotional support. No employee should deal with harassment alone.
Editorial guardrails: Guidelines that protect employees first, brand second.
Healthy boundaries: Content is content. Your identity is yours. Employees need permission to remove the persona when they clock out.
The future of employer branding isn’t just “fun office videos.”
It’s a reconfiguration of work itself. A shift from labour to performance. From worker to brand asset. From employment to narrative co-creation.
If companies want employees to be brands, they need to treat them like creatives, not characters. Otherwise it won’t be a workplace. It’ll be a content farm with a payroll.
-Sophie Randell, Writer
Not going viral yet?
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