I built a YouTube channel to 4 million subscribers -- without making a single video.
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I built a YouTube channel to 4 million subscribers -- without making a single video.
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I built a YouTube channel to 4 million subscribers -- without making a single video.
I founded Omeleto by accident.
I'd already built one successful media company -- and walked away after Dad was diagnosed with cancer. I spent his remaining time with him, then stayed in Taipei for Mom. With not much to do, I enrolled at National Taiwan University to study Chinese.
Then one day, an old friend called. He'd made a short film, gone to the top film festivals and put it on YouTube. It got 31 views from friends and family.
"Allen -- you're an engineer. You know algorithms," he said. "Help me get it seen."
"I studied circuits and semiconductors," I said. "That's not really the same thing."
"You'll figure it out," he said. "You always do."
"I'll see what I can do," I said.
I spent the next couple of weeks reading everything I could find about YouTube -- I learned about click-through rates, audience retention, why people stay or leave. I took notes. I ran tests. I looked for patterns.
The film was good -- award-winning, actually. It just needed some small adjustments. I replaced the thumbnail with a well-lit close-up of the protagonist. I cut the opening credits to start the story with a bang. I tested the changes with a small audience, then uploaded it to a new channel.
Then I forgot about it.
Six months later, he called. "That short you helped me with -- it has 13 million views," he said. "Producers are calling to turn it into a feature."
"Congrats," I said. I figured that was the end of it.
A week later, one of his friends called. Apparently, filmmakers are friends with other filmmakers.
"He said you're a wizard at getting films seen."
"I got lucky," I said. "I don't think I can do it again."
"Could you just give it a shot?" he asked. "Please -- that's all I'm asking."
"I'll see what I can do," I said.
I did the same thing -- and it happened again. The film reached 15 million views -- and producers called to turn it into a feature.
Then his friends called. Then their friends. Then people I'd never heard of. Word had spread that a mysterious man in Taiwan could get films seen by millions -- and get them noticed by Hollywood.
I watched every submission. If a film was great, I tried to help. I did it all for free. Soon I was flooded with requests -- and I didn't have time to get to them all. I felt bad I had to turn away good filmmakers.
So I did the thing I didn't want to do: I started charging a submission fee. That cut down the volume -- filtering out all but the most serious filmmakers. But more importantly, the revenue meant I could pay someone to watch films I couldn't get to.
Then one of the shorts was nominated for an Oscar. Then the Los Angeles Times called for an interview. Then Hollywood producers wanted to talk about what Omeleto could become.
Omeleto now has hundreds of award-winning films and nearly 4 million subscribers. I never had a plan. I just kept helping the next person who asked. I kept saying, "I'll see what I can do."
And I still haven't made a single video.
I founded Omeleto by accident.
I'd already built one successful media company -- and walked away after Dad was diagnosed with cancer. I spent his remaining time with him, then stayed in Taipei for Mom. With not much to do, I enrolled at National Taiwan University to study Chinese.
Then one day, an old friend called. He'd made a short film, gone to the top film festivals and put it on YouTube. It got 31 views from friends and family.
"Allen -- you're an engineer. You know algorithms," he said. "Help me get it seen."
"I studied circuits and semiconductors," I said. "That's not really the same thing."
"You'll figure it out," he said. "You always do."
"I'll see what I can do," I said.
I spent the next couple of weeks reading everything I could find about YouTube -- I learned about click-through rates, audience retention, why people stay or leave. I took notes. I ran tests. I looked for patterns.
The film was good -- award-winning, actually. It just needed some small adjustments. I replaced the thumbnail with a well-lit close-up of the protagonist. I cut the opening credits to start the story with a bang. I tested the changes with a small audience, then uploaded it to a new channel.
Then I forgot about it.
Six months later, he called. "That short you helped me with -- it has 13 million views," he said. "Producers are calling to turn it into a feature."
"Congrats," I said. I figured that was the end of it.
A week later, one of his friends called. Apparently, filmmakers are friends with other filmmakers.
"He said you're a wizard at getting films seen."
"I got lucky," I said. "I don't think I can do it again."
"Could you just give it a shot?" he asked. "Please -- that's all I'm asking."
"I'll see what I can do," I said.
I did the same thing -- and it happened again. The film reached 15 million views -- and producers called to turn it into a feature.
Then his friends called. Then their friends. Then people I'd never heard of. Word had spread that a mysterious man in Taiwan could get films seen by millions -- and get them noticed by Hollywood.
I watched every submission. If a film was great, I tried to help. I did it all for free. Soon I was flooded with requests -- and I didn't have time to get to them all. I felt bad I had to turn away good filmmakers.
So I did the thing I didn't want to do: I started charging a submission fee. That cut down the volume -- filtering out all but the most serious filmmakers. But more importantly, the revenue meant I could pay someone to watch films I couldn't get to.
Then one of the shorts was nominated for an Oscar. Then the Los Angeles Times called for an interview. Then Hollywood producers wanted to talk about what Omeleto could become.
Omeleto now has hundreds of award-winning films and nearly 4 million subscribers. I never had a plan. I just kept helping the next person who asked. I kept saying, "I'll see what I can do."
And I still haven't made a single video.
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