**Dateline: Beijing, October 26, 2023** — In the sprawling digital landscape of China’s internet, where side hustles and gig economies flourish, a seemingly simple question has ignited a firestorm of debate and cautionary tales: Is it risky to make money by watching advertisements? The epicenter of this discussion is not a corporate boardroom or a government bureau, but the popular Chinese question-and-answer platform, Zhihu, a barometer for the anxieties and aspirations of the nation’s netizens. For millions, the promise is alluringly straightforward. With smartphone in hand, users can download any number of applications from official and third-party app stores that pledge to convert time and attention into tangible cash rewards. The mechanics are simple: watch a 30-second advertisement for a new game, a financial product, or an e-commerce platform, and receive a small payment, often a few cents, credited to an in-app wallet. Complete a series of these viewings, and the promise is a slow but steady trickle of income, a digital-age version of piecework. Yet, as countless threads on Zhihu reveal, the path from clicking ‘play’ to cashing out is fraught with peril, blurring the lines between micro-earning and sophisticated digital exploitation. The events unfolding are not of a single, dramatic incident, but a slow-burning crisis of consumer trust and digital literacy. On Zhihu, a platform revered for its in-depth analysis and user-generated expertise, queries like “Are ad-watching apps a scam?” and “How did you lose money trying to earn from ads?” have garnered thousands of responses. The collective testimony paints a complex and often grim picture of the risks involved. **The Lure and The Illusion** The primary risk, as detailed by Zhihu users, begins with data privacy—a cost often overlooked in the pursuit of a few yuan. To register for these platforms, users typically surrender a trove of personal information. “When I signed up for ‘AdWatch Gold,’ it required my phone number, access to my contact list, and even my ID card number for ‘verification purposes’,” recounted a Zhihu user under the pseudonym ‘DigitalNomad’. “It felt invasive, but the promise of easy money clouded my judgment.” Cybersecurity experts corroborate these concerns. Dr. Li Wei, a professor of information security at a Beijing-based university, explains, “These applications are data-harvesting operations disguised as earning opportunities. The small payments you receive are likely far less valuable than the behavioral data, contact networks, and personal identifiers you are providing. This data can be packaged and sold to third parties for targeted advertising, or worse, fall into the hands of scammers for phishing campaigns and identity theft.” The location, often a user’s personal home or office, becomes the unwitting point of extraction. The timeline of a typical user’s experience follows a predictable pattern of enticement and frustration. The initial stages are designed to build trust. New users earn small amounts quickly and are often able to make a minimal withdrawal, perhaps 10 or 20 RMB, to a digital wallet like Alipay or WeChat Pay. “This ‘first taste’ is a classic psychological hook,” states a behavioral economist on a popular Zhihu thread. “It validates the platform’s legitimacy in the user’s mind and encourages further investment of time.” **The Deepening Quagmire: From Wasted Time to Financial Loss** However, the event trajectory soon shifts. As users progress, the payout per ad shrinks dramatically. The threshold for withdrawal is then raised, requiring hours upon hours of continuous ad-watching to reach a new minimum balance. Zhihu is replete with stories of individuals spending entire weekends glued to their screens, watching hundreds of ads for a potential payoff of 50 RMB ($7 USD)—a pitiful hourly wage when calculated. The risk escalates from mere time-wasting to active financial solicitation. Many apps introduce tiered membership systems. For a monthly fee, users are promised higher-paying advertisements and a lower withdrawal threshold. “I paid 98 RMB for a ‘Gold Member’ status, thinking it would finally be profitable,” shared another Zhihu user, ‘RegretfulClicker’. “The higher-paying ads were for other, shadier investment apps, and the withdrawal process became even more convoluted. I never got my 98 RMB back, let alone any profits.” This introduces the most dangerous facet of the scheme: the nature of the advertisements themselves. Users report being served ads for unregulated peer-to-peer (P2P) lending platforms, dubious cryptocurrency schemes, and other high-risk financial products. The line between earning from ads and being tricked by them becomes dangerously thin. A user might download an ad-watching app to make money, only to be funneled into an advertisement for a Ponzi scheme, resulting in catastrophic losses. “I started with ‘Joyful Ads’ and within a week, the app was showing me ads for a ‘can’t-miss’ investment fund promising 20% monthly returns,” wrote a Zhihu user who claimed to have lost over 50,000 RMB. “The ad was so persuasive, and since it was inside an app I was using to earn money, it felt vaguely trustworthy. It was a devastating mistake.” This event chain—from micro-earner to scam victim—highlights the ecosystem’s predatory nature. **Zhihu as the Court of Public Opinion** In the absence of robust and clear regulations specifically targeting these models, Zhihu has become a de facto court of public opinion and a grassroots watchdog. The platform’s format allows for detailed, evidence-based exposés. Users dissect the terms of service of popular ad-watching apps, pointing out clauses that allow the company to freeze accounts “for suspicious activity” just as a user is about to withdraw a significant sum. They share screenshots of failed transactions and unresponsive customer service chats. This collective intelligence serves as a crucial early warning system. When a new ad-watching app trends on an app store, a search on Zhihu often reveals its true colors within days. The community’s verdict acts as a powerful deterrent, protecting potential users from falling into the same traps. The events documented on Zhihu are not just anecdotes; they are a crowdsourced audit of a shadowy sector of the digital economy. The location of this debate is significant. In China, where digital platforms are deeply integrated into daily life, the trust placed in apps is high. This trust is precisely what these ad-watching schemes exploit. The discussion on Zhihu represents a maturation of the Chinese internet user, a move from uncritical adoption to skeptical scrutiny. **The Broader Implications and a Path Forward** The phenomenon raises broader questions about the value of attention and data in the modern economy. These platforms commodify human attention at an incredibly cheap rate, creating a digital underclass performing repetitive, low-value tasks. The psychological toll is another hidden risk cited on Zhihu. Users speak of increased anxiety, a compulsive need to check their phones, and the feeling of their time being devalued. So, is it risky to make money by watching advertisements? The evidence compiled from the digital town square of Zhihu leads to a resounding and nuanced yes. The risks are multifaceted: the erosion of personal data privacy, the high probability of financial loss through membership fees or related scams, the immense opportunity cost of time, and the potential for psychological manipulation. The events chronicled on Zhihu are a cautionary tale for the global internet community. As the gig economy evolves, new and seemingly easy revenue streams will continue to emerge. The story of ad-watching apps, as told by thousands of users, is a powerful reminder that if an offer appears too good to be true, it almost certainly is. In the end, the most valuable currency is not the few cents earned from a fleeting advertisement, but the security of one’s personal data and the sanctity of one’s time. The collective wisdom on Zhihu offers a clear verdict: in the economy of clicks, the user is often not the earner, but the product being sold.