I think if you asked most people still working in this industry (on a good day, you might be able to pull together a minyan) most of them would say that they're doing more and more and getting less and less out of it.
There's more work to be done, simply because there are more channels that we have to keep filling with "content," or "messaging." More channels more channels more channels. More crap that the machine has to churn out. Forget considering whether or not anybody sees it, or if it's doing any good.
There's more work to be done, simply because the $10 million paychecks have cut staffing to the bone. There are fewer and fewer people to do stuff. That's just the way it is. You can't fight City Hall. Or holding companies. Or even project managers.
Whole floors are empty, with Aeron chairs piled up like ancient Druid monoliths. Future generations will wonder, 'what's with all the chairs.' Only us old people will know. There used to be people for all those chairs. But it turned out that the people were easier to get rid of than the furniture.
Ha ha ha. Someone will laugh.
Maybe someone who never read "The Death of a Salesman." Someone who thinks a man is a piece of fruit. That you can just eat the orange and throw away the peel. And, what the heck, call it recycling.
Then an email will come out, usually from someone with a title as long as your arm, or both arms. A title who has nothing to do with creating ads.
They'll tell you that your agency has just been voted a "Best Place to Work."
You feel like riding the elevators all day hoping you'll bump into them. You have a dialogue all planned.
"A best place to work?," you'll say.
"Yes," they'll smile while looking right through you. You are someone who bangs their fingers to the bone on a barely functioning keyboard, someone who makes ad after ad after ad. That is, you are someone barely worth talking to. You are the lowest of the lowly--someone who works, not someone who administrates work, or administrates someone who administrates work.
"A best place to work?," you'll repeat.
You escort them to the third floor, where Aeron chairs and used file cabinets are stacked on top of each other like discarded Christmas trees in January. A fluorescent light cackles. The floor creaks like an old whaling ship.
"What about these people," you'll ask.
While looking through you, they'll glance down at their phone, look worried and mumble, "I have a four." And away they'll go.
It's only two-fifteen.