Author｜Zhang Qian

Editor｜Hu Zhanjia

Operations｜Chen Jiahui

Produced by｜LingTai LT (ID: LingTai_LT)

Header Image｜Publicly available image from the internet

On April 20, 2026, at the iQIYI World Conference, CEO Gong Yu made two bold statements. The first: live-action filming may become intangible cultural heritage. The second: over 100 artists have signed with the AI artist pool, and AI-generated commercial blockbusters are set to be released this summer.

Two hours later, #iQIYIHasGoneCrazy was trending at the top of Weibo's hot search list.

At 13:30, Zhang Ruoyun's studio issued an emergency denial: "No AI authorization has been signed; legal affairs have been involved." Yu Hewei's studio followed suit at 14:38: "No AI-related authorization has been signed." Wang Churan's fan club also stated at 14:03: "No AI-related authorization has been signed."

The top-rated comment in the netizens' discussion area read: "From now on, don't call it iQIYI; call it AI Qiyi."

This was not a marketing stunt. In a broader context, these were two depth charges that iQIYI launched into the market, but no one could have predicted the resounding backlash they would receive.

AI Digital Actors Trend on Hot Search—Has iQIYI Really Gone Crazy?

Gong Yu couldn't sit still.

On April 21, he posted on social media, explaining that technology is people-oriented and should always serve humanity. Technology should never aim to replace people...

This was a further explanation of his statements at the conference. After all, actors trending on hot search is not uncommon. But AI digital actors trending on hot search? The scene felt eerie.

On-site videos showed that Ma Su, Chen Zheyuan, Zeng Shunxi, Cheng Lei, Fang Zhuren, and Jiang Long had joined the AI artist pool. Gong Yu's original words were even more provocative: "Actors often work very hard, spending three to four months filming without a personal life. AI can enable actors to go from starring in four dramas a year to fourteen, giving them more time to rest."

Netizens' translation: Low emotional intelligence—actors lose their jobs; high emotional intelligence—more rest.

Amid the public outcry, iQIYI issued a clarification on Weibo that afternoon: "The Nado Pro artist pool aims to provide a standardized platform for AIGC creators, facilitating the selection of artists and efficient communication for collaborations." This was followed by another post in the early hours of the 21st: "Joining only represents an intention to collaborate on AI film and television projects. Whether to participate and in what form will be separately negotiated based on specific projects."

However, the public's resistance and skepticism recalled the 2017 "Digital Actors" controversy.

That year, Liu Tao publicly revealed that during filming, she encountered actors who replaced their lines with numbers, mouthing numbers while relying entirely on post-production dubbing. "Digital actors" became the focus of ridicule—hollowing out the essence of roles, leaving only empty forms, and destroying the authenticity of performances.

In the same year, "General and I" was exposed for having extremely few scenes featuring both the male and female leads together. In two episodes totaling two hours, they appeared together in only about eight shots, totaling ten minutes. Green screen backgrounds, blurred edges around characters, disproportionate sizing, and inconsistent lighting led netizens to mock it as "photoshopped studio images." Its Douban rating plummeted from 8.2 to 3.1, with over 75% of viewers giving it one star.

"Digital actors" and "AI artists" are essentially the same: both are "dehumanizing."

The connotation of lines includes human creativity in the text, and memorizing lines is a labor-intensive method that technology cannot yet replace. These elements, attached to the actor's initiative, disappear, along with the effort to "become" the character.

Gong Yu said, "To reduce actors' workloads," but in the public's perception, over the past six years, extremely high incomes and relatively low personal labor intensity have become the consensus about the acting industry. All celebrities claiming to be overworked and impoverished are at a disadvantage in moral and public opinion.

The rough and difficult realities of life are felt by every ordinary person. If even the performers in fictional worlds become fake, the spiritual nourishment attached to abstract reality will eventually vanish under digital monopoly.

What lies behind iQIYI's "crazy" move?

According to comprehensive media information from Tianyancha and iQIYI's financial reports, revenue in 2025 was 27.3 billion, a 14% decline. Membership revenue was 16.8 billion, a drop of 3.5 billion. Advertising also shrank. The annual net loss was 206 million, reversing two years of profitability.

The capital market reacted faster than the financial reports. Stock prices, which had briefly rebounded after "The Knockout," continued to decline. Investors asked bluntly: Can you continue to make money?

iQIYI couldn't provide a clear answer.

The long-form video model is essentially a "content gamble." Money is spent on buying dramas, hoping they become hits to attract members. If they don't, the investment is lost. "The Knockout" succeeded in 2023, but iQIYI didn't have another hit in 2024 or 2025.

Eroded User Trust

The collapse in membership revenue cannot be entirely blamed on content.

Consider how iQIYI has "pushed away" users.

Price hikes. Three rounds of increases in five years, from 15 yuan per month to 30 yuan for Gold VIP, 40 yuan for Platinum, and 60 yuan for Star Diamond. Prices doubled, but benefits didn't.

Tiered membership. The same membership was split into three tiers. What Gold members could watch, only Platinum members could cast to a screen; what Platinum members had, only Star Diamond members could fully enjoy. Simple things were made complex, forcing users to buy more expensive plans.

Restrictions. How many devices could one account log into? Rules were changed, tightened, and tightened further. Family users were forced to purchase multiple subscriptions. Friends borrowing accounts? Frequent switching led to account suspension.

Advertising. Even with a membership, there were exclusive member ads at the beginning, in-show mini-drama ads, and pause ads. Users joked: "I bought a membership to watch more expensive ads?"

Advanced screening. Members had to pay extra to watch the finale early. After public backlash, it was renamed "screening gift," but the essence remained the same. Trust was repeatedly eroded until users stopped bothering to "negotiate"—they simply didn't renew.

Comprehensive media reports from Tianyancha show that membership revenue dropped by 3.5 billion from 2023 to 2025. It's not that users can't afford it; they just feel it's "not worth it."

More subtle harm came from advertisers. Member attrition meant lower traffic quality, making ROI unattractive. Advertisers cut budgets, shifting to short videos and live-stream e-commerce. iQIYI's advertising revenue shrank alongside its membership base.

A vicious cycle ensued: Users leave → Advertising drops → Revenue falls → Content is cut → More users leave.

Red Short Drama's 275 Million Monthly Active Users—A Huge Impact from Short Dramas

In 2024, short dramas exploded.

ByteDance's Red Short Drama reached 275 million monthly active users. Each episode lasted a few minutes, featuring cliché but addictive plots, free to watch, and monetized through ads and paid unlocks. User time was heavily fragmented, and long-form video usage plummeted.

iQIYI wasn't unresponsive. It quickly entered the market, launching micro-short dramas and revising revenue-sharing models. But long-form video platforms creating short dramas is like a five-star hotel opening a fast-food window—their organizational DNA doesn't align. Long dramas emphasize high production quality, long cycles, and IP accumulation; short dramas prioritize rapid iteration, algorithm-driven content, and instant emotional gratification.

Two logics, one team—they clashed.

A deeper issue lay at the strategic level. Gong Yu verbally committed to "fully embracing AI-simulated dramas," with plans to release 25,000 vertical short dramas and 35,000 comic dramas in 2026, over 50% using AI. However, the lineup showed that long dramas remained the "pinnacle," with short dramas as "supplements."

How can a "supplementary" mindset defeat an "all-in" competitor?

Red Short Drama is backed by ByteDance, with endless resources in algorithms, traffic, and funding. What does iQIYI have to compete?

Why AI Artists Triggered a Public Outcry

Returning to the conference on April 20.

Gong Yu dropped two bombs: The first, "Live-action filming may become intangible cultural heritage," and the second, "The AI artist pool." The public erupted, artists denied the rumors, and netizens mocked.

Why was the reaction so intense?

On the surface, it was a dispute over authorization. Deeper down, it was a collapse of trust. Viewers pay to watch dramas and invest genuine emotions. The platform's suggestion that faces on screen might be AI-generated—"You're trying to fool me with fakes, so I won't buy it."

More profoundly, it was about the essence of performing arts.

Stanislavski wrote in "An Actor Prepares": "You cannot create something you don't believe in or consider unreal."

The artistry of performance lies not in accurately completing actions or delivering lines but in actors drawing from their own life experiences to produce genuine "here and now" reactions in their roles. Directors may obsessively shoot a scene dozens of times, each take subtly different, reflecting the creator's unique vision and the actor's accidental breakthroughs. Human struggles and limitations become the nourishment for performance.

Such reactions are spontaneous, irreplicable, and filled with human flaws. Like Maggie Cheung in "Comrades: Almost a Love Story," when she identifies a body and sees a Mickey Mouse tattoo, she can't help but smile, accidentally adding layers of richness the script couldn't express.

AI lacks such "accidents."

It can "perform" the same scene countless times without fatigue or complaints, but the "one-time" and "irreversible" nature of human performance vanishes. Its ultimate effect depends entirely on how human creators define and guide it.

Over 2,300 years ago, Aristotle said, "Drama is the imitation of an action." Using a living being to imitate another's traces of life is, in essence, using one life to enlighten and awaken another.

AI artists represent the opposite of this "biological" logic—using lifeless forms and symbols to assemble representations of living people.

Gong Yu calculates costs: Unit content costs drop by an order of magnitude, while output increases by two orders of magnitude. But he fails to calculate another cost: When viewers realize they're being fooled by AI faces, they'll vote with their feet.

AI isn't unusable; it's about how it's used.

Youku positions itself as "democratizing creation," Tencent says "high-quality thresholds are higher," Enlight invests 320 million in IP, using AI to assist but not replace humans. iQIYI's approach is to replace actors, filming, and creation.

This Storm Warrants iQIYI's Serious Attention

Tencent has video, gaming, and WeChat ecosystems. Youku is backed by Alibaba. Mango TV has broadcasting resources. Bilibili has a unique community. What about iQIYI? Baidu.

Once, iQIYI was Baidu's most successful investment outside search. Founded in 2010, it went public in 2018, with Gong Yu personally selected as CEO by Robin Li. Back then, Baidu was thriving, with money, patience, and traffic to direct.

But Baidu's focus is no longer on iQIYI, which seeks a secondary listing in Hong Kong to raise funds. Capital markets ask: What's your story? Where's the growth? How will you profit?

Regardless, growth for iQIYI does not lie in AI artists.