Voters are tuning out politicians. Authenticity is the weapon.
In the annual ritual of Australia's federal budget, Treasurer Jim Chalmers has turned to TikTok, Instagram, and influencer partnerships not as a novelty, but as a governing necessity — recognising that the arena where democratic consent is now won or lost is not the press gallery but the social media feed. The challenge facing modern democracies is ancient in its essence: how do those who hold power make themselves legible to those over whom they govern? Chalmers' pre-dawn running clips and budget 'unboxing' videos are, in their way, a contemporary answer to that enduring question.
- Dense economic policy — hundreds of pages of flow charts and accounting sheets — is simply illegible to most voters in its raw form, creating a communication crisis at the heart of democratic governance.
- The traditional media lockup no longer holds a monopoly on the budget narrative; influencers and social media creators now receive early access alongside journalists, disrupting decades of established gatekeeping.
- Chalmers and his team responded with a content blitz — behind-the-scenes running footage, coffee-making chats to camera, and a staffer delivering budget papers like a Christmas gift — designed to make a treasurer feel human rather than institutional.
- The strategy is already showing its limits: when David Pocock pushed a gas tax campaign, the top comments flooding government Instagram posts had nothing to do with the budget and everything to do with voters' own agendas.
- The deeper wager is on authenticity — politicians who visibly enjoy the camera connect, while those dragged reluctantly to the ring light are immediately exposed, and no volume of content can substitute for the real thing.
Jim Chalmers was running through Canberra's darkness before dawn, and hours later was still awake in a lamplight office, Red Bull at his elbow, studying figures. He chose to document all of it — and the resulting video, showing the unglamorous grind of 'decision week,' rippled through political group chats almost immediately.
The strategy behind it was deliberate. A federal budget runs to hundreds of dense pages — flow charts, complex mathematics, accounting sheets — none of which travels well on a phone screen. So Chalmers and his team built content instead: running footage cut with dramatic urgency, casual camera chats over coffee, and an 'unboxing' video of the budget papers arriving at his office, a staffer delivering them with the energy of Christmas morning.
This is no longer unusual in Canberra — every politician is now, in some sense, a content creator. But the scale has shifted. Labor and Liberal MPs post 'I read the budget so you don't have to' clips. Veteran ministers film 'POV: walking into budget day' videos. Politicians arrive at public events wired with Rode microphones, their own videographers standing among the television cameras. The traditional media lockup still happens, but it now shares the stage with influencers.
Chalmers granted early budget access to pages like Cheek Media, Tash Invests, and the Money Money Money podcast. Prime Minister Albanese sat for an interview with Toilet Paper Australia. The logic is volume — reach every platform, every feed, every stream. The information war is now fought in comment sections, as Albanese and Chalmers discovered when David Pocock's gas tax campaign flooded their Instagram posts: eight of the top ten comments were about gas, not the budget.
Traditional media still matters. But the real contest is for the feeds where voters who don't read the news spend their lives — people more moved by a relatable moment than by a week of favorable headlines. Authenticity is the prize, and it cannot be faked. You can tell immediately which politicians light up when the ring light comes out, and which ones have been reluctantly dragged there by younger staffers. A few coffee selfies won't solve the deeper fractures in public trust — but in this moment, they may be more persuasive than any spreadsheet.
Jim Chalmers was up before dawn, running through Canberra's pre-dawn darkness in shorts and a cap. Hours later, still awake, he sat in a darkened office lit only by lamplight, a sweater pulled on against the cold, sugar-free Red Bull at his elbow, studying budget figures. It was "decision week"—the annual federal budget, the biggest political moment of the year—and the treasurer had decided to document it all for social media.
The video he posted, showing glimpses of this behind-the-scenes grind, pinged around political group chats. It was part of a larger strategy: Chalmers had embraced social media not as a side project but as a central tool for selling what may be the most ambitious budget of his tenure. The budget itself is a dense document of hundreds of pages—flow charts, complex mathematics, accounting sheets. None of that travels well online. So instead, Chalmers and his team created content: running footage edited with dramatic effect, quick cuts and urgent pacing, casual chats to the camera while making coffee, an "unboxing" video of the budget papers arriving at his office, a staffer bursting in with the physical copy like it was Christmas morning.
This is not new in Canberra anymore. Every politician is a content creator now. Josh Frydenberg once ran for the cameras during budget week; Joe Hockey posed for a staged consolation photo with Tony Abbott ahead of their 2015 budget. But the scale and sophistication have changed. Labor and Liberal MPs post "I read the budget so you don't have to" clips. Don Farrell, a veteran minister, films "POV: walking into budget day" videos while trudging across courtyards. Politicians arrive at public events wearing Rode microphones on their lapels. Their own videographers stand among the television cameras at press conferences. The traditional media lockup—the controlled release of budget documents to journalists—still happens. But it now shares the stage with influencers and social media creators.
Chalmers gave early access to the budget to popular pages like Cheek Media, Tash Invests, and the Money Money Money podcast. Prime Minister Anthony Albanese sat for an interview with Toilet Paper Australia, a commentary page. The strategy is volume: reach as many platforms, feeds, and streams as possible. The information war is fought not in newspapers but in comment sections. When David Pocock launched his campaign for a gas tax—a niche, complicated policy area—the responses flooded into Albanese and Chalmers' Instagram posts. "Lol tax the freaking gas," read one top comment. Eight of the top ten comments were about gas.
Politicians still care about traditional media coverage. The budget lockup, the press conference, the media blitz—these remain critical. But the real challenge for modern politicians is different: winning over the social media feeds where more people spend more of their lives, reaching voters who don't read the news, who are more moved by relatable content than by a week of favorable newspaper headlines. Some politicians feel awkward doing this. You can tell instantly which ones are enthusiastic when the tripod and ring light come out, and which ones have been reluctantly dragged along by younger staffers.
But in an era when voters are tuning out politicians and the news, when they prize authenticity above all else, showing a different side of elected leaders can be powerful. Albanese and Chalmers have both acknowledged bluntly that the budget's major changes are partly about signaling to voters that they don't accept the status quo, that they're responding to concerns about a broken system. Authenticity is the word. It's what One Nation supporters use to praise Pauline Hanson. A few coffee selfies and running videos won't fix the deeper problems overnight. But in this moment, they may be more palatable to voters than trying to explain dense charts and spreadsheets.
Citas Notables
Albanese and Chalmers have both acknowledged that the budget's major changes are partly about showing voters they don't accept the status quo— The Guardian reporting
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does a treasurer need to be seen running at dawn? Isn't the budget itself the point?
The budget is the point, but nobody reads it. It's hundreds of pages of flow charts and accounting. So you have to give people a way in—a human way. Show them the person behind the numbers, the exhaustion, the coffee at midnight. It makes the whole thing less abstract.
But doesn't that feel like theater? Like he's performing being tired?
Maybe. But voters are exhausted too. They're tuning out traditional politics. When they see someone who looks like they're actually struggling with something, actually working on it, that registers differently than a press release.
The government gave influencers early access to the budget. Isn't that just bypassing journalists?
It is, partly. But journalists were always gatekeepers. Now there are more gates. The question is whether reaching people where they actually are—on TikTok, Instagram, in comment sections—matters more than the old hierarchy.
Does it work?
Look at the gas tax campaign. Pocock made a complicated policy relatable, and suddenly Albanese's Instagram is flooded with people demanding change. That's real pressure. So yes, it works. The question is whether it's sustainable, or whether people eventually see through the coffee selfies.