#04 Do You Really Need a Niche?
What If We're Letting Digital Language Shape the Way We Think?
This reflection was born from a simple question: what is the relationship between craftsmanship and online selling, and how much space should it really occupy within our own projects?
It's 2026. If you ask ChatGPT—or any other form of artificial intelligence—for advice on building an editorial plan, a social media strategy, or a marketing plan, the very first thing it will tell you is to identify a niche. Find a specific audience. Speak to a clearly defined group of people. It will happily design a brilliant social media strategy built around one primary platform, supported by several secondary ones, all carefully connected to funnel traffic wherever it needs to go. It will recommend the best ways to gather a small community where everyone discusses the same topics over and over again. From aggressively passive platforms like Threads, to the obsessive rabbit holes of Reddit, all the way to relentless Telegram groups that somehow double as emotional support circles. You know the kind—you open the app, find two hundred unread messages, and suddenly the kindergarten parents' group chat doesn't seem quite so overwhelming anymore. All of it built around the hope that, one day, when you finally launch a course or release a product, people will be waiting with open arms and their wallets already in hand.
Over the past few years, the conversation has increasingly revolved around building this so-called niche. For many, it has become the foundation of any growth strategy—or, more simply, a way to stay afloat and keep the numbers working.
If you've started a blog, a newsletter, written articles, or created online courses—whether out of necessity or in search of new strategies—you probably know exactly what I'm talking about. Over the past few years, all of these formats have been rediscovered as forms of soft marketing. Instead of simply announcing discounts or new product launches, mailing lists are now designed to start an ongoing conversation with a relatively small group of people: your community. Even Substack—which, judging by the way it originally presented itself, seemed intended as a platform for collaborative journalism and multi-author publications—is rapidly shifting toward a model of relationship marketing, often built around a single person acting as both author and public voice.
Let's start with a simple idea. We could say that niche is just a modern word for something much older: working with loyal customers, often gained through word of mouth. It's the same principle that keeps a dentist or a mechanic in business. Their clients trust them, so they keep coming back. Sometimes because they need to. Sometimes because they appreciate the way the job was done. The service meets their expectations, and the relationship continues.
The same principle applies to every profession.
If we stop for a moment, we'll notice that the idea of the niche first emerged as an online marketing strategy before gradually becoming part of everyday language. Originally, it was meant for businesses offering genuinely specialized or unusual products. Over time, however, the term has expanded until it now refers to broad categories of people.
Those who built their businesses around online sales, growing through paid advertising, are now watching that system slowly begin to crack. Through the lens of digital commerce, people tend to become little more than numbers in a dashboard. There's no real exchange taking place—just a one-way process. I see the ad. I click. I add the product to my cart. I buy. That's it. The advertising stops, the visibility disappears, and the customer is already considered "acquired."
The proposed solution has become nurturing that same customer who once joined your mailing list but soon forgot you even existed. If you think about it, though, there's nothing new about this. The local greengrocer did the same thing by setting aside the best fruit for you. The butcher would mention a special offer just before barbecue season. Once they had earned your trust, they gave you reasons to come back.
And in a world increasingly crowded with fake news and serial scammers, trust has once again become the most valuable currency. Managed well, it allows anyone to grow within a controlled environment. But there's a hidden rule. Today, the mistakes of one individual damage the credibility of an entire profession. It only takes a handful of bad actors to erode customers' trust—not just in those responsible, but in everyone working in the same field.
So, if we want to understand whether this ideal of the niche really makes sense for us, we first need to take a closer look at the sales channels we're being encouraged to use.
Different Places, Same Principles.
Over the past decade, the boom in e-commerce has been driven by the discovery of new ways to sell through previously underused channels—in this case, social media—with growth accelerating dramatically during the pandemic.
So what is happening now? Why does that momentum seem to be slowing down? And for a small artisan, is it really worth investing so much attention in these platforms?
Let's move the discussion into the physical world. A street stall is a sales channel. A market stand is a sales channel. A brick-and-mortar shop is a sales channel too. An online marketplace is simply a storefront open to the entire world. Different environments come with different costs. A local audience versus an international one. A different final price, shaped by the level of investment and the location you choose.
Now imagine a neighborhood that, back in the 1980s, was considered a cheap, run-down area on the outskirts of a city. Local shopkeepers relied on regular customers from the neighborhood. Competition was low, business was steady. As the city gradually expanded, that same district slowly became part of the city center, bringing more customers and greater commercial opportunities. Other businesses noticed the growth and started buying the neighboring shops to benefit from the increasing foot traffic. Property prices rose because profits were higher—but so did competition. Eventually, the area became attractive enough to draw the attention of companies with far greater financial resources. Large brands moved in and gradually took control of the district. Those who managed to keep their customers survived. Those who could no longer afford the rising costs were slowly pushed back to less central locations.
Simple. Predictable.
Online marketing works exactly the same way. The city center represents the amount of attention you can buy, depending on how much you're willing to invest. The problem is that more and more people are using these platforms. Competition increases, the space becomes saturated, and the best locations remain in the hands of those with the greatest capital and resources. Small and medium-sized businesses are gradually pushed aside.
Same pattern. Different environment.
This happens in every sales channel. It's simply how markets evolve.
And this is where the problem begins. Smaller businesses complain—and understandably so. They invested time and energy helping these platforms grow. So how does the platform respond? It encourages you, the producer, to think differently. To take a step back and focus on your niche. The audience you were supposed to have built over the years.
"The problem isn't us. It's you. You never learned how to keep your customers."
"Here's how we'll help. We'll sort people according to their interests and try to match them with your content. But remember, we're still an entertainment platform, so you'll have to adapt to that. Otherwise, you can always keep paying for advertising like you used to. It's just more expensive now... you know, inflation. And let me tell you something else—but keep it between us. If I realize your entire business depends on me, you'll understand why my share of the pie has to become bigger. Much bigger."
Very often, the greatest risk is becoming dependent on a single sales channel. That dependency slowly drags us downward. The same thing can happen inside online marketplaces, with a rented shop, or through consignment sales. Whoever controls your sales channel also gains considerable influence over your personal and economic growth, simply by changing the rules and the costs of staying there.
And above all, in this case our intermediary is an algorithm.
So how, exactly, does it decide what our niche is?
Who might actually be part of this digital community? Let's try a rough analysis.
First, we're likely to encounter other artisans trying to promote their own brands. In principle, that doesn't help us much. We sell physical objects, not networking opportunities, and we're not trying to build an economic exchange between makers. Some people certainly are, but most are there for the same reason we are: to find new customers.
Alongside them are hobbyists looking for tutorials. That's also why content about crochet, embroidery, or origami spreads so easily online. There's nothing wrong with that, but it's of limited value if what we're selling isn't educational content or online courses, but handmade objects.
Moving on, we find people who are passionate about artistic craftsmanship, but mostly about the image it represents. They're highly active in the digital world, much less so in the physical one. They consume tutorials and endless streams of disposable content, yet often know very little about the practical realities of making things. More than owning handcrafted objects, it's the idea of loving craftsmanship that becomes part of how they define themselves.
Then come those who understand craftsmanship in theory—but not when it comes to price. They know it's a slow and demanding process, yet they continue searching for the lowest possible cost, even when those prices are physically unsustainable for the people producing the work. Their like counts exactly the same as that of someone who genuinely values handmade work. And if you think about it, that's what teaches the algorithm that handmade simply means good—as long as it's cheap.
Then there is everyone else. People who don't have any particular interest in craftsmanship—and who, for that very reason, might actually be our ideal customers. Within this broad group are both those whose buying habits are now largely shaped by online shopping and impulse purchases, and those who can still be drawn in by the story behind a beautiful object. That's the paradox. The people most likely to appreciate what we make aren't necessarily the ones spending the most time in digital spaces.
Finally, I'd add one last category. Not customers, but producers.
Artisans looking for validation, hoping for the next viral post. In a way, they end up training the algorithm. I complain. He complains. Everyone complains. We look for reassurance that our struggles aren't our fault, and gradually adapt to the system by creating the wrong kind of content. Tutorials revealing every step behind the scenes. Hours of work compressed into thirty-second videos. Posts proudly declaring that we're "not selling anything."
The risk is that we end up presenting ourselves as a profession that's permanently struggling just to survive. At that point, I'd be grateful if customers only asked for a small discount.
Unfortunately, since nobody truly knows how an algorithm works, every attempt to understand it remains speculative. But that's exactly why this rough analysis is still worth making.
When an algorithm decides that two people belong to the same interest group, is it actually identifying a market—or is it simply grouping together similar online behaviors?
Because, in the end, showing interest in something doesn't necessarily mean being willing to buy it. An algorithm can certainly introduce us to a community built around shared interests, but not necessarily to a community of potential customers. The risk is that our message gets consumed by the algorithm's audience long before it ever reaches the people we were actually hoping to reach.
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