I feel the digital age has profoundly disrupted comedy, but not necessarily in the ways people first imagined.

Much of the conversation I have around modern comedy focuses on how attention spans have shortened, how algorithms reward immediacy over craft, and how performers are increasingly expected to function not only as artists but also as marketers, editors, and content producers. And I believe that, for all the ways technology has complicated comedy, it has also democratised it in extraordinary ways.

For generations, comedy existed within a relatively closed ecosystem. I always felt my path to recognition was narrow and heavily dependent on access. I grew up believing that if you wanted success, it required years of performing in small clubs, gradually building a reputation, and eventually gaining the attention of the so-called gatekeepers – festival programmers, television executives, producers, or agents. Talent mattered, but access mattered just as much. Many gifted performers I knew simply never reached wider audiences, not because they lacked originality or skill, but because they lacked opportunity.

Every year, thousands of performers descend on festivals such as the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, or Montreal’s Just for Laughs, bringing with them years of work, ambition, and artistic risk. These festivals showcase thousands of shows and artists, all competing for limited attention. Historically, only a fraction of those artists would receive meaningful exposure beyond the festival itself. A successful run might generate reviews, word-of-mouth, or industry interest, but for many performers, their work remained confined to the people physically present in the room.

The digital age changed that entirely.

Today, as a performer myself, I no longer depend solely on physical attendance or institutional endorsement to reach an audience. A single clip, a recorded set, or even a short moment of crowd work captured on a phone can travel far beyond the venue where it originated. Work that once disappeared at the end of a performance can now persist, circulate, and reach millions. Geography has become less relevant. A comedian performing in a basement room in Edinburgh can now be watched in Sydney, Mumbai, or even my hometown of Quesnel within hours.

This transformation represents a radical shift in artistic accessibility. Comedy, once bound by location and distribution infrastructure, has become globally portable. More importantly, artists who might previously have been overlooked by traditional systems can now find their audience directly.

This is perhaps the most significant change of all.

The digital age has weakened the authority of gatekeepers, or at least reduced artists’ dependence on them. Audiences increasingly decide for themselves what resonates, rather than relying on broadcasters or industry institutions to curate taste. This has opened space for voices that do not fit conventional commercial expectations. Unusual styles, niche perspectives, and unconventional performers now have a greater chance of being discovered because connection matters more than conformity.

That shift benefits not only comedians, but audiences as well.

Comedy has always been deeply personal. I find that people laugh hardest when they feel recognised – when a performer articulates something truthful about the human experience that audiences have felt but never fully expressed. In the past, finding a comedian who spoke directly to your sensibilities often depended on where you lived or what media you had access to. Today, audiences can discover artists from entirely different cultures, backgrounds, and styles with unprecedented ease.

Of course, there are still challenges.

Digital platforms reward speed, brevity, and immediate engagement. Comedy that once relied on slow-building tension, subtle rhythm, and carefully crafted narrative must now often compete within seconds for attention. The algorithm favours the instantly compelling. This creates pressure on artists to produce work that is not only funny, but immediately consumable and endlessly shareable.

As a result, some aspects of the craft risk being compressed. Long-form storytelling, pacing, and emotional complexity– the style I have spent years honing– do not always translate neatly into short-form content. There is a legitimate concern that the architecture of digital platforms can incentivise simplification.

But live comedy remains irreplaceable.

No algorithm can replicate the electricity of shared laughter in a room full of strangers. The communal nature of live performance—the tension, the spontaneity, the collective release—remains essential to comedy’s power. Festivals, clubs, and theatres still matter because they create human connection in real time.

What has changed is not the value of live performance, but the boundaries of the room.

The room no longer ends at the venue walls.

• Tom Stade Rules is on at Stand 1 at 8pm during the Edinburgh Fringe.