A couple of weeks ago, one of my teenage daughters casually mentioned that she had created a TikTok — a short video on the platform owned by ByteDance, the Chinese company — that had gained 114,000 views in a matter of days.

“A hundred and fourteen thousand?” I repeated, wondering if I had misheard.

She rolled her eyes at me. “It’s not that much!” she said, proceeding to show me Instagram pictures of other kids she knows in New York whose TikToks have attracted far bigger audiences.

I pointed out that a mere 114,000 was almost four times the number of followers that I have on Twitter, even though I am a journalist in the public eye and have maintained that account for a couple of years.

“Well, you’re old,” she shrugged, checking her phone again. The views of her video — a micro-satire on her teenage life, set to music — were still rising.

I was simultaneously impressed, alarmed and humbled — partly because although I knew TikTok existed, I didn’t even fully understand what it was until a few months ago.

But it was also because I realised that something radical, yet largely invisible, is ­happening on the internet — with implications we still don’t understand.

When I was growing up, I took it for granted that the people who became famous enough to be listened to by a crowd had worked hard for that accolade and generally operated with the support of an institution or an established industry.

I’m thinking of the film stars I saw on cinema screens and the music idols who paraded on the stage of the BBC’s Top of the Pops, as well as the more conventional figures in the public eye — politicians and business leaders.

The idea that I, as a teenager in my bedroom, might suddenly communicate with 100,000 people or more, would have seemed bizarre. Just giving a speech to a hall of a few hundred fellow pupils at school was terrifying enough.

Today’s kids no longer see life in these hierarchical and institutional terms. Yes, their physical worlds are often constrained by parental controls, a lack of access to the outdoors and insane over-scheduling.

But despite that (or, more accurately, in reaction to that), they see the internet as a constantly evolving frontier, where it is still possible for a bold and lucky pioneer to grab some land or find a voice.

To put it another way, when The New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman declared in 2005 that the internet had made “the world flat” in economic terms (allowing competition between remote workers in Boston, Bangalore and Beijing), he was only half right.

It is flattening hierarchies too, by giving power to the crowd and, sometimes, a megaphone to ordinary mortals.

Of course, “flat” does not mean egalitarian: Most voices on the internet never travel beyond a relatively small network, and much of the content that goes viral on platforms such as TikTok, YouTube or Instagram does so because of unseen institutions at work (for example, a public relations team aiming to boost a celebrity’s profile).

But lone actors do sometimes go unexpectedly viral, and in a manner that makes my daughter’s experience seem utterly tame.

Fame can suddenly appear — and then just as suddenly be taken away again, because the audience gets bored, the platform’s algorithms change or the cultural trend that a breakout video has tapped into goes out of fashion.

For a teenager, social media can seem like a summer garden at dusk filled with fireflies: Spots of lights suddenly flare up and then die down, moving in an unpredictable, capricious display.

Is this a bad thing? We will not know for several years. Judging from my own experience of teenagers, I suspect (or hope) that the next generation will be more cynical about the concept of fame than we were, and less trusting about the quality of information they receive online.

I also suspect that they are more politically engaged than my cohort was at a similar age, at least when it comes to researching, discussing and highlighting issues that they care passionately about, from #MeToo to climate change.

They may also be creating ways for new politicians to rise through non-traditional channels.

But a world of digital fireflies is also a place that can breed populist, celebrity-focused politics; that can damage our attention span and ability to engage with complex policy issues; and can foster a dangerous sense of entitlement.

Teenage fears about popularity online are fuelling narcissism, insecurity and social pressure, with damaging mental health impacts for some.

Clearly, we cannot put this genie back in the bottle. For better or worse, the next generation’s expectations about communication, hierarchy and community are changing.

But the challenge for their parents is how to respond. Ignore it? Get on TikTok and YouTube ourselves? Or simply gawp?

If anyone has the answer, let me know — ideally in a now-so-old-fashioned email. FINANCIAL TIMES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Gillian Tett is chair of the editorial board and editor-at-large, US, of the Financial Times. She writes weekly columns, covering a range of economic, financial, political and social issues.