Editor’s note: The rapid growth of livestream marketing in China has led to many hosts employing “maishou” — voice actors who pose as callers with genuine questions or problems, but are actually working to a script — to help make their content more engaging or promote products. Although taboo in the industry, the practice has become a large-scale, industrialized operation in recent years. Here, reporters speak with insiders and even take on several jobs to investigate this underground business.

“Hello. I’d like to ask about my marriage.”

I’ve just called in to a livestream hosted by a self-styled relationship guru on Douyin, the Chinese version of TikTok. My job is to portray a pregnant wife who married into a wealthy family only to discover her husband is potentially gay.

I’m none of these things, of course, and the host knows that. She’s been happily answering comments on her feed for a while, but now has moved to the interactive segment, in which she invites viewers to call in. As my call was preplanned, I’m getting my chance at a “consultation.”

Over the next few minutes I perform the script she’d sent me the day before, playing my role as a 27-year-old “solid seven out of 10” from humble beginnings who managed to land a 29-year-old Mr. Right with millions in the bank. Plot twist: Since my pregnancy, he’s been more interested in hanging out with his male best friend, who he calls “babe” in texts.

The host feigns confusion. “He calls him ‘babe’? That’s suspicious, don’t you think?” The livestream has only a dozen viewers, but the comments section quickly lights up with lines such as “Definitely a sham marriage” and “LOL.”

After seven minutes of talking, as planned, we end the call and I receive 3.5 yuan ($0.48) as payment, working out at 0.5 yuan a minute, which is standard for this kind of work.

I had landed the gig after answering the host’s online recruitment post. As a newcomer, I first had to send audio samples demonstrating different emotional states, from crying while maintaining clear speech to comedic, rapid-fire rants. “The more styles you master, the more calls you’ll get,” the host told me.

After my performance as a wealthy wife, I was added to a group chat on the WeChat instant messaging platform with more than 100 maishou. Here, the host and her assistant regularly post job listings, specifying the age and gender required, time slots, and script themes. Roles are simply labeled as “mistress,” “filial child,” or “ex-girlfriend.”

Days later, I landed another gig, playing a 28-year-old marketing manager at a technology company, “whose bestie stole her boyfriend.” It was a two-person act. While my “bestie” was consulting with the host, I had to barge into the livestream to expose her as a cheat. In the industry, this is called a “duo call,” with trio calls and quartet calls following a similar pattern.

The employer this time was a middle-aged male host who claimed to have more than 20 years of experience in Chinese classical studies. Once our pretend heated argument had engaged the viewers, he stepped in — initially quoting the ancient Chinese philosopher Laozi, before explaining: “You were once best friends, now enemies, because you both see yourselves as victims. This argument stems from mutual dependency and dissatisfaction.”

As the script instructed, my fellow actor and I showed that we’d been enlightened by his time-honored wisdom. Afterward, we both received 10 yuan for our efforts.

Dress rehearsals

Maishou are more prevalent in the livestreaming industry than probably most people realize. “It’s an open secret in the industry,” says Liang Bing, who runs a multichannel network (MCN) company in Hangzhou, capital of the eastern Zhejiang province, that works with video platforms to assist content creators in areas such as programming, products, and digital rights.

He explains that maishou emerged in 2022 along with the rise of knowledge-based paid livestreaming on short-video platforms. Many of these actors used to work writing fake reviews for e-commerce platforms, he says, but after crackdowns on such behaviors, they migrated to livestreaming.

Today, the practice has come into its own. Liang says that major MCNs commonly purchase annual packages that include predetermined numbers of maishou, comments, and product review ratings. They are also often heavily involved in the scripts, which aim to create viral content and tie into trending topics.

He estimates that at least 80% of livestream hosts in the legal advice sector alone regularly have voice actors pose as genuine callers.

Industry novices will almost certainly employ maishou to boost engagement and prevent dead air. “This also helps build a host’s confidence in the early stages,” Liang explains, although as their viewership increases, so too usually does the frequency of appearances from hired actors.

Even top streamers employ them for special events, such as for promoting a paid-for course. In these instances, a caller may need to demonstrate a high degree of expertise or experience, for which some actors charge at least 100 yuan for 10 minutes.

Zhou Zhou, who is studying performing arts at a Beijing university, was hired last summer to take part in a livestream to be hosted by an unnamed celebrity. She and a male classmate were added to a group chat with three members of the production team. The trio refused to reveal the host’s identity, saying only, “You’ll be shocked when you find out.”

“I just thought it would be fun,” Zhou says, adding that it’s common for students of performing arts or broadcasting to be approached by production interns offering “unpaid experience” as a maishou on popular livestreams.

In the script provided, Zhou and her classmate were to play a couple. She was instructed to initially express excitement at meeting the mystery celebrity, but then quickly shift to distress as she says, “My boyfriend and I have been together for a long time, but lately he’s been so cold to me. Do people change?”

After a short while, the “boyfriend” would also enter the livestream, leading to an argument about wearing matching outfits. For the climax, the two actors were to open their webcams to reveal they are both wearing the same frilly, beige-colored dress.

Zhou received the script and the props in the mail, and they began intensive rehearsals. The production team demanded emotional performances, with no obvious hint that they were acting. The pair practiced their argument six or seven times until it was pitch perfect.

However, after several delays caused by the host’s schedule changes, Zhou decided to pull out. About six months later, she saw a similar scenario play out in a celebrity’s livestream, but instead of the couple wearing dresses in the big reveal, they were in thermal underwear — the product that was being promoted that day.

The behind-the-scenes experience has since put Zhou off such livestreams. “It just felt fake,” she says. “There’s no point in watching it anymore.”

Touchy subjects

Not all hosts are keen to embrace maishou. Liang’s company primarily signs lawyers for streams offering legal advice, and some of these “maintain high professional standards and reject any artificial engagement,” he says. In these cases, the company will sometimes arrange actors without informing the host, “quietly helping build their confidence as they stream.”

More importantly, the practice must remain hidden from the audience. A key requirement for the voice actors is “to keep it real,” while their accounts must be set to private.

Ding Ding, a 32-year-old who has been working part time in the maishou business for six months, says that there is also typically a 10-day cooling-off period between appearances to reduce the risk of being detected as a shill.

She says the professionalization of the industry is clearly reflected in the efficiency of the group chats — no small talk, just job postings and call sheets. Subgroups are created for each livestream, and once the job is done, payments are sent and the subgroup is immediately disbanded.

After finishing her day job in an office, Ding will pick up gigs in the group chat, check the script, and wait for the livestream to start, sometimes while sitting in her company’s break room. At times, she’s one of up to 10 maishou lined up to call into a stream, all with assigned slots.

Starting out, Ding used to get nervous, and would recite the script as though reading an article out loud. But she quickly learned to sound more natural — sometimes too much so, as she’d wander off script and accidentally use a “sensitive word,” much to the chagrin of the production team.

Aside from bad language, and terms relating to criminal activity, discrimination, or violence, it would be hard to pin down a complete list of “sensitive words” not permitted on Chinese social media platforms. According to the Advertising Law, they include references to state authorities and employees, as well as exaggerated or unfounded adjectives such as “best,” “highest,” “world class,” and “cheapest,” largely because so many livestreams are now geared toward selling products.

Failure to follow the rules can lead to fines for channel owners or accounts being suspended or even closed down for good.

To circumvent this issue, maishou have developed a way of replacing sensitive words and terms with safer alternatives; for example, saying “officer hat” instead of “police.” However, Ding believes such behavior is a telltale sign that a call has been staged. “Who else would watch their words so carefully?” she says.

Li Liang, vice president of Douyin Group, formerly ByteDance, has said publicly that while streamers must adhere strictly to marketing regulations on sensitive terms, regular viewers face no such restrictions.

Ding has performed in various livestreams, from relationship and legal advice channels, which dominate the market, to more niche topics such as makeup tutorials that hire actors with visible skin issues.

Her longest performance was on a 30-minute dating stream during which almost all the potential male suitors were maishou. Some random people joined, but they typically shared only basic information before quickly disconnecting, often without showing their faces. For Ding, genuine viewers are typically nervous and awkward. Many will only communicate through comments, although this is also prone to subterfuge due to hosts and MCNs using “water armies,” groups of paid-for online commentators or trolls.

“I used to think maybe half the calls to livestreams were real, but I never imagined they were all fake,” Ding says.

She feels that, on the surface, many viewers believe these stories are true. After some streams, her Douyin account has been flooded with direct messages, with viewers expressing either sympathy, disgust, or attraction, depending on the role she was playing that day.

Ethical issues

Online recruitment for maishou is booming. A typical advertisement will read, “Make money with just your phone — if you can talk, you can earn!”

One recruiter, Li Li, suggests that it is a “decent” profession and “just for entertainment purposes.” Her team has been operating for six years and has more than 10,000 “supervisors,” who coordinate voice actors for various projects.

Despite repeatedly making it clear that I am a journalist, Li insists on offering me three packages I can buy to come on board, ranging from 298 yuan to 599 yuan, with the most expensive option allowing me to earn commission from the people I go on to recruit myself.

She promises me access to script libraries and lectures on sensitive words, and suggests I can be earning up to 200 yuan a day. “You’ll learn how to make money once you start,” Li tells me, while emphasizing that the job is ideal for stay-at-home moms, office workers, and disabled individuals.

“You need an open mind,” she adds, as justification for the signing fee. “Think, act, succeed — that’s how it works. But wait and watch, and you’ll only watch others succeed.”

Li insists that her team strictly prohibits product promotion, a controversial practice highlighted during the “315 Gala,” an annual, high-profile consumers’ rights event aired by the state broadcaster China Central Television. In 2023, it revealed that fake family dramas were being used in livestreams targeting elderly consumers.

When asked about how hosts make money, Li responds that it’s not her concern. “We’re just the callers; we don’t take money from the viewers… we don’t steal, and we don’t cheat” she explains, before reiterating that professional maishou “are responsible, principled, and think in the long term.”

The livestreaming industry is ever-evolving, with channels appearing and disappearing every day. The first two relationship advice streams that I appeared on have since suspended their accounts, making all their videos inaccessible. The host with the Chinese classical studies background is now inactive, and his team says traffic was poor on the day of my performance.

However, Li and Ding both expressed optimism for the industry’s future. New chat groups are constantly being formed, more job openings are being shared, and fresh-faced hosts are emerging all the time. “The demand just keeps growing,” Ding says.

(Due to privacy concerns, Liang Bing, Ding Ding, Li Li, and Zhou Zhou are pseudonyms.)

A version of this article originally appeared in White Night Workshop. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Chen Yue; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.

(Header image: VCG)