What is tuanbo? Virtual gifts, fandom and fierce competition power China’s group livestreaming boom
Group livestreaming, or tuanbo, is one of the fastest-growing online entertainment industries in China. But behind the scenes, young performers are navigating a cutthroat world of rankings and algorithms to stay visible and relevant.
A H131 sub-unit performs a dance routine in front of a two-camera set-up in a sound stage in Shenzhen, China on Apr 30, 2026. Each live streaming session typically lasts between three and four hours. (Photo: CNA/Lan Yu)
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SHENZHEN: K-pop-style makeup. Fiery red backdrops. Giant LED posters featuring young performers - with polished smiles and carefully edited faces.
They are part of China’s booming tuanbo - or group livestreaming - industry, where young entertainers compete for eyeballs in a market projected to jump from 15 billion yuan (US$2.2 billion) last year to 40 billion yuan this year, according to industry estimates.
Unlike typical solo livestreams, tuanbo features groups of performers dancing, singing and interacting with fans in an idol-style format built around rankings, team battles and virtual gifting.
Its appeal lies in the highly interactive and immersive experience that keeps viewers emotionally invested for hours.
Inside Zhongxinghui Culture Media’s headquarters in Shenzhen, another livestream is about to begin.
Dressed in brightly coloured coordinated outfits, performers dance through choreographed routines beneath flashing lights as viewers flood the screen with comments and animated virtual gifts in real time.
Giant digital boards track and rank top performers throughout the day, updating constantly based on livestream traffic, fan engagement and virtual gifts.
The 15,000 square metre office, the largest of the company’s three livestreaming bases across Shenzhen, houses multiple studios which operate around the clock.
The company, which previously focused on traditional video production and product livestreaming during the pandemic, was among the first in China to break into group livestreaming, founder Hou Shuojun told CNA.
“In the past, audiences only watched celebrities from afar. Now they want participation and interaction,” Hou said.
CHINA’S NEW “TUANBO” WORKFORCE
Though relatively new compared to other forms of livestreaming like gaming broadcasts and commercial shopping streams, tuanbo has rapidly grown into a massive industry in China.
Last year, more than 8,000 group livestream rooms went live daily nationwide, according to a report by the China Association of Performing Arts.
Part performance, part fan economy, tuanbo sessions often feature groups of hosts and entertainers dancing, singing and interacting live with viewers on Chinese social platforms like Douyin and Kuaishou.
Sessions can range from 30 minutes to an hour, as audiences compete to send them virtual gifts that boost performers’ rankings, visibility and earnings.
Xu Deya, an associate professor at East China Normal University’s (ECNU) School of Communication in Shanghai, described tuanbo as an extension of Chinese talent and idol survival shows - hugely popular before authorities banned them in 2021 - and its booming livestreaming economy.
But it is more than just a trend, Xu said.
“A lot of people entering the business originally wanted to debut through those kinds of programmes,” she added.
Industry experts said performers can earn anywhere between a few thousand yuan to over 100,000 yuan a month.
Virtual gifts on platforms like Douyin can cost thousands of yuan. “Carnival” gifts - one of the most popular forms on Douyin - can start from 30,000 diamonds, or roughly 3,000 yuan.
THE APPEAL OF BEING SEEN
China’s youth unemployment rate for 16 to 24-year-olds stood at 16.9 per cent in March 2026, with roughly one in six young jobseekers out of work as a record 12.7 million graduates prepare to enter an increasingly crowded labour market this year.
New forms of platform-based gig work have become increasingly attractive among young Chinese job seekers - from ride-hailing drivers to freelance creatives.
Around 15 million people worked primarily as livestreamers in 2025, the China Association of Performing Arts said in a report.
Zhang Chenggang, an associate professor at the Capital University of Economics and Business in Beijing, said tuanbo reflects the rise of flexible forms of employment in China.
Unlike many traditional careers, it does not necessarily require formal qualifications or exams to enter - just a camera and the ability to attract views and engagement.
But earnings are heavily shaped by platform rankings, traffic and viewer engagement, Zhang said, creating the impression of “low barriers and high rewards” even though only a small minority ultimately achieve stable long-term incomes.
For many newcomers, the appeal lies in the glamour and visibility surrounding the industry - but behind the viral clips and polished performances, livestreamers describe long hours, unstable incomes and relentless pressure to stay relevant online.
Industry operators also said only one in 10 remain in the business long term.
Chen Xiaofeng, better known by his stage name Kaqimiao, never planned to enter the livestreaming business.
The 29-year-old had previously worked as a print model before pandemic disruptions pushed him to look for new opportunities.
Like many of his peers, Chen initially assumed the job was mainly about looking good on camera.
Little did he realise there were “many unspoken rules” in the industry.
With no dance background, he recalled training for up to 10 hours a day to keep up.
“When everyone only sees the glamorous side of a job, they rush in. Then the industry becomes very competitive,” he told CNA.
“You have to perform, speak well, react quickly and constantly learn new things.”
“Your numbers could be very high today - but what about tomorrow?”
Another performer, 26-year-old Wu Chen’an, once dreamed of becoming a dance teacher.
After drifting between dance teaching and odd jobs, he left his home province of Jiangxi for Shenzhen in 2022 after coming across a recruitment advertisement online and applying “by chance”.
Now better known by his online stage name An Lan, Wu spends up to 10 hours a day rehearsing choreography, livestreaming and interacting with viewers in real time.
Performers can sometimes spend hours repeating the same movement, he said.
Back then, Wu barely understood what livestreaming was. Adapting his street dance background to livestream choreography proved harder than expected.
Today, however, he describes the industry as “extremely competitive”.
“Now everyone is fighting for the same cake,” he said.
Like acting and modelling, tuanbo success is shaped not just by hard work, but by visibility, timing and luck, Wu added.
“Others might have lots of fans supporting them while you wonder why you don’t - that’s something every tuanbo performer goes through.”
“Everyone in this industry works hard,” Chen said. “But not everyone has the luck of being seen.”
“It’s three parts effort and seven parts luck.
“But that doesn’t mean you stop working hard.”
HIGH COSTS AND RISING SCRUTINY
Top tuanbo performers could take roughly 70 to 80 per cent of earnings depending on the type of livestream, said Hou, founder of Zhongxinghui Culture Media - with production companies and talent agencies often covering training, production, operations and backstage support.
A group livestream produced by a team of up to nine people can cost between 150,000 and 200,000 yuan a month to operate, including lighting fees and budgets for stylists, choreography and training.
Li Huijie, a former livestream operator in Shenzhen, said he invested more than 8 million yuan into three tuanbo companies over roughly a year, hiring around 20 livestreamers at its peak.
Investors were initially drawn to the industry’s ability to quickly attract viewers and monetise through virtual gifts and livestream commerce.
“At first, everyone thought there were a lot of opportunities,” Li said.
But soon, high operating costs, rising competition and rapid staff turnover rates made profits harder to sustain, he added.
Even as competition intensifies, some companies are betting that tuanbo can evolve beyond a short-lived internet trend.
Hou said his company approaches tuanbo more like a traditional talent agency than a typical livestream operation, focusing on long-term artist development instead of chasing “explosive” overnight fame.
“I don’t want them (tuanbo livestreamers) making fast money overnight,” he said.
“I rather they grow step by step.”
At the same time, the industry faces growing scrutiny in China over concerns about emotional manipulation and exploitation, excessive overtime and labour law violations.
Public scrutiny intensified further in December when a 26-year-old former tuanbo livestream performer, named in Chinese media outlets as Xiaoyu, described earning just 26 yuan after a month working at a livestream agency in Changsha.
Livestreamers were expected not only to dance and perform but also maintain private contact with high-spending viewers, she said.
“Maintaining top supporters was more important than dancing,” she added.
Her case triggered widespread online debate and in January, the China Association of Performing Arts released guidelines for group livestreaming - calling for stronger protections against excessive working hours, exploitative talent contracts as well as coercive online tipping and gifting practices.
Tuanbo hosts were also warned against using “fabricated intimate relationships” or “gifting-driven ranking competitions” to manipulate spending by viewers.
Some viewers have raised unhappiness about performers and companies that use “emotional attachment to encourage more spending”.
One fan in Guangdong, who asked to be identified only by his online name Nian An, told CNA that he once spent more than 800,000 yuan within three months to support a tuanbo performer.
While he described it as “easily accessible idol culture” built around emotional interaction and constant visibility, his experience also made him uncomfortable with the way some agencies operate.
It “tests” and “blurs” emotional boundaries, the 30-year-old sales worker said - with flirtatious interactions and constant engagement encouraged to drive spending.
PERFORMING FOR ALGORITHMS
Online attention can quickly shift and many tuanbo performers say the real pressure comes from the constant need to capture people’s attention.
Careers can be short - all too often determined and shaped by one’s age, appearance, and ability to bring in viewer numbers in an increasingly crowded market, they said.
“For many young workers, this pressure can feel even more direct than in traditional workplaces,” said Zhang from Capital University of Economics and Business.
An Yu, 22, joined the business earlier this year after graduating from a fashion programme in Guangdong.
The hardest part of livestreaming is not always the long hours, but the feeling of performing without being noticed, he said.
“Physical exhaustion can be overcome but mentally, if you feel like nobody sees you, it can feel meaningless,” he said.
“Whether people notice you also depends on luck,” he said.
“If people aren’t watching, your heart gets tired.”
“If your numbers don’t go up, you’ll definitely worry,” said Wu, the performer from Jiangxi province, adding that one of the biggest challenges is grappling with fluctuating viewer counts.
For many performers, the work doesn’t stop just because the cameras do.
Many continue their work offline - making it a point to respond directly to fan comments and remember the user handles of regular viewers.
Some even have a role in maintaining private fan groups.
Because the closer audiences feel to a star, the more likely they are to keep watching and spending.
“(Some viewers) give you gifts so of course you have to chat with them privately too,” said Wu, whose Douyin account has more than 41,000 followers.
Chen said some viewers have followed him for years.
On Douyin, he commands more than 91,000 followers and 670,000 likes.
Some of his regulars include children “as young as four or five”, Chen said - who he has met at offline events.
They also join some of his livestreams with their parents, he added.
Still, success in the industry was never entirely within one’s control, Chen said.
“Why do we work hard? So that when luck finally comes, you’re ready to hold onto it.”
