I built a YouTube channel to 4 million subscribers -- without making a single video.

I built a YouTube channel to 4 million subscribers -- without making a single video.

I founded Omeleto by accident.

With my last company behind me, I studied Mandarin at National Taiwan University. Most days, my biggest decision was which beef noodle shop to try for lunch.

Then my friend Matt called. I picked up on the first ring. He was quiet for a few seconds. I could hear him breathe.

"Hey -- is this a bad time?"

"No -- what's up?"

He made a short film, took it to the top festivals and put it on YouTube.

"It has 31 views -- four of those are me."

He cleared his throat.

"You know algorithms, right? Could you get people to see it?"

"I studied circuits and semiconductors. It's not really the same thing."

"You can figure it out. You always do."

I paused.

"I'll see what I can do."

I spent two weeks watching every MrBeast interview. Then I scrolled YouTube without reading the titles. I watched where my thumb stopped. On faces. Every time.

I watched Matt's film again. I found five well-lit shots of the protagonist's face and made a thumbnail from each. I used Photoshop to make the eyes pop. Over lunch, I showed 11 classmates the thumbnails. Eight picked the same one.

Then I played the first two minutes and marked every time someone looked away. Finally, I put it all together, uploaded it and went back to my homework.

Six months later, Matt called. I stood in line at 7-Eleven, holding a chicken curry.

"Have you checked on my film?"

"No."

"Go look at it."

I opened YouTube. I counted the digits with one finger. 11 million views. The clerk asked if I wanted it heated. He didn't look up.

"Yes," I said.

A week later, one of Matt's friends called.

"He says you're some kind of wizard."

"I got lucky. I don't think I can do it again."

"Please."

I paused.

"I'll see what I can do."

His film hit 13 million views.

Then his friends called. Then their friends. Then people I'd never heard of.

"Sorry to bother you."

"I was recommended by a friend."

"Dear Wizard of Taiwan."

The queue hit 13 films. Then 41. Then 79.

Friday nights, I watched films as my bento went cold.

A classmate knocked on the door.

"Night market. Everyone's going."

"Sorry -- next time," I said, eyes still on the screen.

She didn't ask again. Neither did anyone else.

I sent most filmmakers the same reply. I pasted it so often my laptop started to finish it for me.

"Sorry -- I can't get to it yet."

One filmmaker wrote back: "No worries. Honestly, I'd pay to move up the line."

I opened the submissions page and stared at the empty fee field. I typed a number and hesitated, then clicked "Save."

That filmmaker was the first to pay. For the first time, the queue got shorter. With the fees, I hired someone to watch the films I couldn't get to. The first film she watched was his.

That night, I ate my bento while it was still hot.

The next day, I closed the analytics tab. No more Photoshop. No more lunch-table tests. I started building Omeleto as a collection. One filmmaker wrote: "A producer found me on Omeleto." Soon, others started asking: "Am I good enough to join?" Then one of those films was nominated for an Oscar.

The Los Angeles Times called. The reporter asked what I did to get so many people to watch it. "I just added it to the collection."

The next Friday, I called Matt.

"Beef noodle. I know a place."

Over our bowls, he asked how many films I'd watched.

"I lost count."

I paused, then added, "I never said thanks."

He looked up.

"For what?"

"For that call."

I'd already paid at the counter before we sat down.

The next morning, I started at the bottom of the queue. The message said: "Sorry to bother you. I was recommended by a friend. It has four views -- three are mine."

I pressed play. I watched to the end. I let the credits roll.

Then I wrote back: "I'll see what I can do."

Five views now.