长尾 Long Tail

长尾

原文作者：Chris Anderson
原文发表时间：2004年10月
翻译：雷声大雨点大，拙尘 @ yeeyan.com（译自网络原始版）
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1988年，英国登山家Joe Simpson写了一本名叫《触摸巅峰》（译者：这是Touching the Void通用的中文翻译的书。该书讲述了在秘鲁安第斯山脉发生的一次与死神擦肩而过的登山事故。这本书颇受好评，但不太畅销，并很快就被人们淡忘了。可十年后，有趣的事发生了。Jon Krakauer写的另一部描写登山悲剧的书《进入稀薄空气》成为了畅销书。突然间读者又开始对《触摸巅峰》 产生了兴趣。

为满足读者要求，Random House出版社立刻再版该书。图书销售商把《触摸巅峰》放在《进入稀薄空气》旁边来促销。《触摸巅峰》越卖越火。来年一月，该书的简装版再版，并连续高居《纽约时报》畅销书排行榜14周之久。同月，IFC制片公司出品了以该书为背景的纪实片，倍受好评。到今天《触摸巅峰》的销售量超过《进入稀薄空气》一倍还多。

到底发生了什么呢？简单地说，是Amazon (亚马逊)的推荐造成了这个现象。 网上书商Amazon的软件注意到不少喜欢《进入稀薄空气》的读者也喜欢《触摸巅峰》，就向购买《进入稀薄空气》的所有读者推荐《触摸巅峰》。读者接受了推荐，并且真的觉得这本书很好。一时间，网站的留言里好评如潮，销量因此进一步增加，这就带来了更多的好评，于是形成了一个正反馈。

值得注意的是，当Krakauer的书出版时，Simpson的书几乎已经绝版了。若是再早几年的话，《进入稀薄空气》的读者根本不会知道《触摸巅峰》的存在。即便知道，这本书也买不到了。但Amazon改变了这一切。通过把无限多的产品种类、实时的购买趋势和用户评价结合起来，Amazon 创造了一个把《触摸巅峰》由绝版书变成畅销书的奇迹。

这一案例不仅仅适用于网上书商，它其实揭示了一个全新的适用于媒体和娱乐业的经济模型。这个模型正渐渐开始显示它的威力。比如Netflix的网上DVD租赁、Yahoo! LaunchCast 的MTV、iTunes的网上音乐商城，和Rhapsody。 由于有几乎无穷多的产品可以选择，用户真正喜好的产品被挖掘出来。这使得传统商家如Blockbuster 录像租赁连锁店、Tower Records（CD零售连锁店）和Barnes & Noble （书店）望尘莫及。而这种前所未有的选择让用户流连忘返。当他们越来越远离传统的购买模式后，他们发现自己的欣赏口味竟是那么与众不同。或许以前的主流意识仅仅是被强大的市场营销、狭隘的产品选择以及亦步亦趋的流行文化所误导而已。

对上述公司的销售数据和趋势进行的分析显示，新兴的数字娱乐经济和今天的主流娱乐市场截然不同。如果说20世纪的娱乐业是以流行内容为主导的，那么在21世纪，那些非流行的内容将占据同样重要的位置。

为什么我们一直忍受着迎合大众口味的无聊透顶的夏季大片和粗制滥造的流行音乐呢？是因为市场经济的原因。大众化的口味实际上是不对称的供需关系的产物，是市场对产品分销能力不足的回应。

关键问题在于我们生活在一个物理的世界里，我们的娱乐产品直到不久以前，也是以实物为媒介的。这造成了两个重大的限制。

第一，娱乐业必须靠吸引当地消费者才能存在下去。一般来说，电影院放映一部电影，至少要在两周内吸引1500名以上的观众才能收回放映厅的租金。一个音乐制品店，平均每张CD至少在一年中要卖出两张，才能收回这张CD所占用的半英寸货架的租金。DVD出租、电子游戏零售、书报零售等都面临同样的问题。

在这些行业里，商家的进货必须要保证有足够的销量，才能抵消库存的费用。而另一方面，商家只能吸引有限的本地客户群。对于电影院，是周围10英里以内的人群；音乐制品店和书店的范围更小；而录像出租店可能只有一两英里的范围。一部优秀的记录片，在全国范围内可能有五十万观众会感兴趣，但这却没有任何意义；真正重要的是，在非常有限的地理范围内，如马里兰州洛克威尔市北部地区，或是加州Walnet Creek地区购物中心的人群中，有多少人会对此感兴趣。

很多出色的娱乐产品，在全国范围内会有大量热情的观众和听众，却难以跨越上述障碍。比如《疯狂约会美丽都（Triplets of Belleville）》这部广受好评，并获得奥斯卡最佳动画片提名的片子，只在全美6个影院上映过。一个更明显的例子是印度电影业在美国的遭遇。每年印度电影业有超过800部故事片出品；在美国有大约一百七十万印度裔；但最佳印度语影片《印度往事（Lagaan: Once Upon a Time in India）》（依据Amazon互联网电影数据库的评价）只在两家影院上映过。在美国上映过的印度影片总共也只有屈指可数的几部。受空间因素的制约，零 星分布的观众和没有观众几乎没有分别。

另一个限制来自于物理定律本身。一定频谱范围内的无线电波只能搭载有限的广播频道；同轴电缆只能传 输有限的电视频道。而一天又只有24小时播放节目的时间。广播和电视节目的传送要占用大量的有限资源。其结果呢，也是需要在一定的地域范围内有大量的听 众和观众。这同样成为很多节目难以逾越的障碍。

娱乐业在20世纪对上述限制的解决方案很简单：让大片充斥影院，把畅销的音乐装满货架，给 收音机听众和电视观众有限的选择，让他们甚至用不着换台。这样做其实没错。事实上，根据社会学家的理论，大片的产生有其心理学的根源－－是一种从众心理和口碑效应的结合。而确实，颇有一部分在大众中流行的音乐、电影、书籍是高质量的。

但是，仅有流行的东西，对于我们当中的大多数来说，是远远不够的。每一个人的口味，都会或多或少地偏离主流。而对这些主流之外的东西探索得越多，我们就会越发沉迷于此。不幸的是，在最近几十年里，这些主流之外的东西统统被扫到了角落里——为传统娱乐业服务的市场营销对此根本不屑一顾。

以流行为主导的经济是旧时代的产物，在这个时代里，没有足够的库存空间来存放所有的东西，以满足每个人的需要。比如说，没有足够的货架来存放所制作的CD、DVD和游戏；没有足够的银幕来放映所有的电影；没有足够的频道来播放所有的电视节目；也没有足够的无线电波段来播放所有的音乐；甚至没有足够的时间把所有的内容传播给用户。

这是一个资源稀缺的世界。但是，随着在线分销和零售模式的出现，我们正迈入一个资源极大丰富的世界。这两个世界之间有着天壤之别。

Robbie Vann-Adibe 是数字点唱公司 Ecast 的首席执行官。该公司有超过15万首的曲目供其网络内的酒吧点唱。有一些统计数据非常令人惊奇，Robbie 总是爱据此来向参观者们提问，而所有的人无一例外都会答错。这个问题就是：在随便一家在线媒体商店（像Netflix，iTunes，Amazon，等等）的排行榜前1万首曲目里，那些每月至少被租出去或卖出去一次的曲目占多大百分比呢？

大多数人都会猜是20%，原因很简单：我们一直都是被这样教的。二八定律，也被称为帕累托定律（由意大利经济学家Vilfredo Pareto在1906年提出），在我们周围随处可见。由顶级制片公司制作的电影中，只有20%能够成为畅销片。这种情况同样发生在电视剧、游戏和通俗读物市场上。对于顶级音乐制作公司推出的CD来说，这个百分比还会更低。根据美国唱片业协会（Recording Industry Association of America）的统计，只有不到百分之十的唱片能够盈利。

但是，Vann-Adibe 告诉我们说，正确的答案应该是99%，也就是说，市场对于排行榜前1万首曲目当中的几乎每一首都会有所需求。Vann-Adibe 在他自己公司的统计数据中观察到了这一现象：每个月里都有数以千计的听众花钱点唱那些在其他传统点唱服务中根本就不可能找到的曲目。

人们之所以答错 Vann-Adibe 的问题，是因为这个问题的正确答案在两方面上都与人们的直觉背道而驰。第一点就是，在娱乐业中，二八定律是关于流行的定律，与销售没有任何关系。我们被禁锢在以流行为主导的惯性思维中——我们以为如果一个东西不流行的话，就不可能赚钱，也就不可能返还制作成本。也就是说，我们已经先入为主地认为，只有流行的东西，才有存在的价值。但是，Vann-Adibe，也包括iTune、Amazon和Netflix的管理者们，却发现那些非流行的东西同样能够赚钱；并且由于数量庞大，其盈利总和足以形成一个新兴的巨大市场。

对于iTunes这样的纯数字服务来说，由于不再需要货架，也没有制造成本和分销费用，卖出一件非流行品与卖出一件流行品之间没有任何区别，它们的边际利润都是一样的。流行与非流行有同样的经济基础，它们都只不过是数据库中的一条记录，等待对其需求做出响应，因而具有同样的存货价值。于是乎，流行不再是利润的唯一代名词了。

第二个原因在于业界对于人们的需求没有正确的认识。事实上，我们对于自己想要什么也并不是很清楚。比如说，我们以为一件商品，如果没有摆在沃尔玛（Wal-Mart）或其它主要零售商的货架上的话，那么对这件商品的需求量一定很低；否则沃尔玛们没有理由不卖它。至于剩下的80%，充其量也只能算是准商业化（subcommerical）的产品。

事实上，沃尔玛并不像看上去的那样大众化，它所出售的商品都是选之又选的。一张CD，沃尔玛必须卖出超过10万张拷贝，才有可能收回成本并产生足够的利润。而只有不到1%的CD能够达到这个销量。对于那6万个想要购买最新的《Fountains of Wayne》或《Crystal Method》专辑，或是其它非主流音乐的顾客，该怎么办呢？他们只好到别的地方去找了。书店、电影院、电台和电视台等，都会同样的挑剔。我们把大众市场（mass market）与质量和需求等同起来，而事实上，它只不过代表了千篇一律的重复性、狂轰乱炸的广告效应以及泛泛而肤浅的诉求。我们到底想要什么？我们还正在探索，但很明显地，我们想要的绝对要比这多。

为了了解我们那种不受资源稀缺的经济所限制的真正口味，让我们来看看Rhapsody吧。这是一个允许其订阅用户下载流媒体音乐的服务（属于RealNetworks)，目前提供的曲目超过73万5千首。

如果把Rhapsody每月的统计数据绘成图表的话，你会得到一条描述需求的“幂次法则”（Power Law）曲线，它看上去跟其它音像商店的曲线很相像：最热门的曲目有非常大的需求，随着热门度的降低，需求量急剧减少。但是当你仔细研究排行榜上4万名开外的曲目时，有趣的事情发生了。4万首曲目通常是一个中等音像店的流动库存量（即最终会被售出的专辑）。沃尔玛等其他传统零售商的曲线在这里变成了零——或者是因为它们根本就不经营这么多的CD，或者是因为这些边缘曲目的本地爱好者们没能在商店里找到它们或者根本就没有迈进过商店的门。

而在Rhapsody的曲线上，需求量仍然维持在零以上。不仅仅是排行榜前10万的曲目每个月都至少会被下载一次，连那些在排行榜上排到20万、30万甚至是40万的曲目，都有人下载。不管Rhapsody如何迅速地扩张它的曲目库，那些曲目总能很快地找到听众，尽管每个月可能只有寥寥的几个人，从美国的某个角落点播了这些曲目。

这就是长尾。

在这个长尾上，你能找到任何东西。这里有年代久远的旧唱片，忠实的老歌迷们仍然会满怀深情地想起它们，或者年轻的一代会重新发现它们。这里有现场录音，单曲，混编曲目，甚至是唱片的封套。这里有成千上万的细分再细分的小类别：想象一下，就好比一家Tower Records音像店，只出售80年代的hair bands （70年代兴起的重金属摇滚的一种）或是 ambient dub （参见这里）。这里还有那些在进口品货架上找不到的外国曲目，以及那些名不见经传的小乐队的演奏，其中的很大一部分根本就无从通过分销渠道进入现实当中的Tower Records音像店。

当然，这里面也有很多垃圾。不过，即使是流行的专辑，一样难免会有垃圾。听CD的时候，人们不得不跳过那些难听的曲目；而在网络上，人们则可以借助于群体选择的过滤作用轻易地避开那些垃圾。一首难听的曲目，如果刻在一张价值15美元的专辑里，就要白白花掉你大概十二分之一的价钱；但如果放在网络的某个服务器上，则没有什么危害——在一个曲目凭其自身价值来推销自己的市场中，这样的曲目根本得不到人们的注意。

长尾真正令人吃惊之处在于它的数量。将长尾上足够的非流行累加起来，就会形成一个比流行还要大的市场。以图书为例：Barnes & Noble 的平均上架书目为13万种。而Amazon有超过一半的销售量都来自于在它排行榜上位于13万名开外的图书。如果以Amazon的统计数据为依据的话，这就意味着那些不在一般书店里出售的图书要比那些摆在书店书架上的图书形成的市场更大。也就是说，如果我们能够摆脱资源稀缺的限制，潜在的图书市场将至少是目前的两倍大。曾在音乐行业担任过顾问的风险投资家Kevin Laws 是这样总结这一现象的：“最大的财富孕育自最小的销售。”

这个结论对于娱乐业的所有其它领域或多或少也都是适用的。就拿网上销售和传统销售比较来说：Blockbuster 平均只能提供不到3000个DVD；而 Netflix 有1/5的出租量来自于其排行榜3000以外的内容。Rhapsody 每月被下载的歌曲中，在排行榜1万名以外的曲目甚至超过了在排行榜前1万名的曲目。在每一个例子里，那些传统的实体零售商们所无法触及的市场是巨大的，并且还在变得越来越大。

当你仔细思考这个问题的时候，你会发现互联网上最成功的商业都是以某种方式整合了长尾市场。例如，Google 的大多数收入来自于小广告客户（广告的长尾）；eBay 也是如此，众多细分市场以及只出售一件的商品形成了它的长尾。正如 Rhapsody 和 Amazon 一样，通过克服地域和规模的限制，Google 和 eBay 也成功地开拓了新的市场并同时拓展了现有的业务。

这就是长尾的力量。从那些先行者们那里我们可以学到三条重要的经验，我们将之称为新娱乐经济的新规则。

规则1：要应有尽有

如果你喜欢纪录片，Blockbuster 是不能满足你的。事实上，任何一家影像店都不能——现存的纪录片实在太多了，而它们的销售业绩又是如此糟糕，没有谁会在自己的货架上摆上几十张这样的片子的。不过，你可以加入Netflix，在那里你能找到上千部纪录片。因为Netflix的商业模式使出租纪录片成为可能。这样的大手笔给了纪录片行业一个振兴的机会。在去年，抓住弗雷德曼一家（Capturing the Friedmans）这部纪录片在全美租赁收入当中有超过一半来自于Netflix 。这部影片讲述了一个家庭被恋童癖指控所摧毁的实事。

Netflix 的首席执行官 Reed Hastings 是一个纪录片爱好者。他把这一令人震惊的新发现同美国公共广播公司PBS 进行了交流，后者制作过一部关于美国士兵和越南妇女所生育的孩子的纪录片——《美国女儿越南妈妈》（Daughter From Danang）。该片曾在2002年获得奥斯卡提名并赢得圣丹斯（Sundance）电影节最佳纪录片奖。但是当时PBS并不打算发行 DVD 版本。Hastings 承诺负责DVD的生产和分销，条件是 Netflix 拥有该片的独家授权。现在，《美国女儿越南妈妈》一片在 Netflix 的纪录片排行榜上始终列在前15名里。这可意味着一个租赁者数量达到数万的市场。如果没有 Netflix，这样的市场根本是不会存在的。

还有许多具有同样吸引力的题材或细分题材以往被传统的DVD 渠道所忽视了：像是外国片、动画片、独立制作电影、英国肥皂剧、老式的美国情景喜剧，等等。这些被忽视的市场组成了 Netflix 租赁业务的巨大一块。光是宝莱坞（Bollywood，是印度的著名电影业基地）一块，每月的出租量就接近10万。由于能够找到各种稀奇古怪的片子，新的顾客蜂拥而至——对于订阅服务业来说，能够不花钱而吸引到大量用户，这无疑比金子还珍贵。所以，这第一课就是：抓紧那些细分市场。

那些电影院和影像店无法获利的事业，Netflix 却做得非常成功，原因就在于它能把分散的用户聚集起来。它根本就不介意那几千名想租神秘博士（Doctor Who）的人们是居住在同一个城市里，还是零零散散地分布在全国各地——对于Netflix 来说，它们的经济学意义是一样的。Netflix 冲破了物理空间的束缚。它所真正关心的，既不是顾客们分布在哪里，甚至也不是有多少顾客会对某一特殊的片子感兴趣，而是只要有需求就可以了，至于在哪里都无所谓。

结果就是，任何东西，只要有一点点的机会能够找到买主，就有存在的价值。这与当前的娱乐业的看法是截然不同的。今天，一部老片子是否以及什么时候出DVD是由若干因素决定的，包括需求估计，幕后花絮等附加资料是否存在，以及周年纪念或是颁奖或是每一代人的时间跨度（迪斯尼基本上每十年发行一次它的经典之作因为新一代儿童成为了观众）等等推销时机。这些条件形成了一个很高的门槛，这就是为什么只有很少一部分的电影制成了DVD。

也许对于真正的经典来说，这种模式是有一定道理的。但是对于绝大多数的其它作品来说，这样做未免无事生事了。而与此相对的是，在长尾模式中，只需要把这些内容简单地刻成 DVD 就成了，也不需要有什么附加资料或是推销时机。就把这些 DVD 称为银色系列好了，并且只收正常DVD一半的价钱。独立制片的作品也可以这么办。今年，有将近6千部电影被送交到圣丹斯电影节。其中只有255部被接受了，而这里面又只有二十几部片子被选中发行。想看其它的片子，你就必须亲自参加电影节了。为什么不每年把所有的255部片子都制成 DVD并作为圣丹斯系列打折发行呢？在长尾经济里，评估一部片子比发行其DVD 要更费钱。所以，请尽管做就好了！

音乐界也应该如法炮制。业内公司应该设法获得版权以便能够尽快地发行那些不再流行的音乐，并把这变成一个机械的、自动的、大规模生产的流程。（这是为数不 多的希望这个世界上能多有几个律师的时候。）游戏业也是一样。 怀旧游戏，包括那些在现代个人电脑上运行的经典老游戏的模拟版，由于第一代游戏迷的怀旧情节而日渐风靡。每个游戏出版三年后，游戏发行商都应该以99美分 的价格让玩家下载--无需提供技术支持、质量保证和产品包装。

所有这些策略无疑对图书也适用。我们看到绝版书和正在销售的书之间的界限已经越来越模糊。Amazon和其他旧书销售网络使得买一本二手书和买新书一样容 易。由于图书销售不再受地理限制，这些旧书销售网络创造出了一个流动市场来销售需求量很小的图书。这极大地扩大了它们自己的生意，同时极大地增加了整个市 场对旧书的需求。加上越来越便宜的“按需求打印”的出版技术，无需过多解释为什么每本书都应该能买到已经成为可能。事实上，今天的孩子们非常有可能不知道绝版 书是什么意思了。

规则2：比半价还要更便宜

苹果iTunes的成功使我们以每首99美分的标准价格下载音乐。但这个价格合理么？

问问唱片公司，他们会说这过分便宜了！虽然每首99美分的价格和现在一张CD上平均每首歌的价格差不多，但大多数消费者只买一张专辑中的一两首歌，而不是整张CD。 事实上，网上音乐销售业正在出现向50年代单曲商业模式的回归。所以从唱片公司的角度，消费者应该为他们获得“点歌”的权利而多付些钱，这样才能弥补唱片公司未能销售整张专辑的损失。

但另一方面，如果问问消费者，他们会说99美分还是贵。首先，99美分显然比从Kazaa （一个P2P网络）上免费下载贵。但除此之外，99美分在经济学角度也讲不通：很明显，通过网络下载音乐，唱片公司的费用远远低于99美分。没有包装、生产CD、分销、存货的费用，单曲的价格为什么不能更便宜呢？

令人惊讶的是，有关什么是音乐下载合理价格的出色的经济分析非常少见。主要原因在于这个价格目前不是由市场决定的，而是由唱片公司的“准卡特尔（译者：决定市场价格等的行业联盟）”决定的。唱片公司给单曲制定了一个65美分的批发价格。这使得零售商尝试不同价格的空间变得很小。

这个批发价格大致和CD上每只单曲的平均价格吻合。目的在于避免唱片公司惧怕看到的“渠道冲突”。唱片公司担心如果音乐下载的价格过低，仍旧占有 市场主导地位的CD零售商会造反，或者出现另一种更可能的情况，就是加速CD零售商的死亡。 不管哪种情况，都会把当前的音乐市场搅得更乱，使已经惶惶然 的唱片公司更加不可终日。无疑，他们在制定价格时考虑的是走下坡路的传统的CD零售业，而不是蒸蒸日上的音乐下载的销售方式。

如果唱片公司放弃抵抗会发生什么呢？大胆地猜测一下新音乐经济中把一首歌上载到iTunes 服务器的费用以及依此而定的价格到底如何？结果是惊人的。

零售环节不必要的花费都可以省掉，如制造CD，分销和零售。剩下的是发现、制作音乐和市场营销的费用。假定这些费用不变，从而保证音乐创作者和唱片公司获得的利益也不发生变化。对于一张销量30万张的专辑，每张CD音乐创作的费用约为7.5美元，折算到每首曲目约为60美分。下载音乐的服务所需要的开发和维护费用约为每首曲目17美分，而存储和带宽的费用几乎可以忽略不计。按照上述计算，当前流行曲目下载的价格比合理的价格要贵了25%。合理价格应该是79美分，这反映了用数字方式传播音乐节省的费用。

暂不考虑“渠道冲突”的问题，如果通过网络传播音乐的边际费用比以实物为物理依托（CD）传播音乐的边际费用低，那么网上下载音乐的价格也应当便宜。数字化的费用，而不是物理的花费决定价格。

这些消费者的福音对音乐产业也是有益无害的。薄利自然造成多销。去年Rhapsody进行了一次有关需求弹性的试验。试验结果指出销量的增加非常显著。在试验期间，Rhapsody给用户提供了三种单曲价格，99、79、49美分。尽管49美分已经低到99美分原价的一半，但销量却是原来的三倍。

唱片公司每首单曲的费用还是65美分，Rhapsody额外每首曲目还要付给版权拥有者8美分，所以这个试验是赔钱的。(不过，正如那句老式玩笑，赔本赚吆喝。) 但长尾经济中可销售的大量产品是那些已经把本赚回来了的老内容，还有些是被认定赔本已经被划销了的。又比如由接受唱片公司很少投资的乐队用低廉的费用创作的音乐，以及其他实况录音、老歌翻唱等等。

这些非主流音乐的制作成本比流行作品还要更低。那为什么不能更便宜地卖给消费者呢？想像一下，沿着长尾曲线向末端移动的产品越来越便宜。实际上，是流行程度（也就是市场）在决定价格。只要唱片公司把那些销量不是很大的单曲的批发价降低些，比如提供一个两三种价位的价格模式，情况就会大大改观。而由于上述的大部分内容在传统的音乐零售店根本找不到，也就不大会出现“渠道冲突”的风险了。我们学到这样一点：用低价格把消费者引向长尾末端。

唱片公司到底可以把价格降到多低呢？答案来自于对消费者心理的研究。对那些音乐爱好者们来说，他们关心的并不是到底从iTunes和Rhapsody买多少首歌，而是花钱买歌与从Kazaa等点对点网络免费下载歌曲之间的比较。消费者们能够直觉地感到免费的音乐并不是真正免费的：除去法律方面的风险，通过这种途径来建立自己的收藏是一件很花时间的事情。唱片来源不一致，质量不稳定，还有约百分之三十左右的曲目会存在这样或那样的缺陷。正如Steve Jobs在iTunes的音乐店开张时说的，从kazaa下载音乐可能会让你省一点点钱，但你等于在做一份比最低工资标准还低的工作（译者：这样做得不偿失）。对音乐如此，对电影和游戏来说就更是这样了：盗版产品的质量更加令人沮丧，还可能包含病毒，下载也要花长得多的时间。

所以说，免费是有代价的：这就是方便，是一种心理上的价值。当人们觉得不值得这样做的时候就会掏出他们的钱包。准确计算这个价值量几乎是不可能的，需要考虑到在校学生的钱包厚度以及他们的空闲时间。不过我们至少可以假设一下，比如说音乐，这个价值是每首歌20美分左右。这实际上划定了长尾商业市场以及地下市场之间的分界线。两个市场仍将同时存在，但对于习惯用长尾来思考的人们来说，关键是要充分利用20美分到99美分之间的机会来最大化他们的市场份额。通过提供合理的价格、方便的使用以及稳定的质量，你是可以同免费进行竞争的。

也许最好的方式是停止对单曲的收费。eMusic的拥有人Danny Stein认为，未来的商业应该完全从版权所有模式中脱离出来。随着有线的以及无线的宽带网络变得无处不在，越来越多的消费者们会转向点唱式的音乐服务，这种服务能够提供他们所需要的任何曲目。某些曲目会由广告支持并对听众完全免费，就象广播电台一样。其它的，像是eMusic或Rhapsody，将会是一种订阅模式的服务。今天，iPod在数字音乐经济中独占鳌头，其模式是付费的个人曲目收藏。随着网络的完善，并借助于广告的赞助或是划一收费（比如月费9.99美元的无限制下载），无限制流媒体音乐的经济优势将会改变市场的方向，并在零售音乐模式的棺材上钉上又一颗钉子。

规则3：引导用户去探索

在1997年，一个名叫Michael Robertson的创业者开办了MP3.com——一种看上去很像是典型的长尾商业。任何人都可以上传音乐文件并可以让任何人下载。其理想是，通过这种服务，艺术家们可以跳过唱片公司直接同听众们建立联系。那些想要在网站上毛遂自荐的乐队们需要付一定的费用，MP3.com则通过这些收费来赚钱。这样，唱片公司的专制将被终结，一幅百花齐放的美景将呈现在人们面前。

许多人实际上利用这一服务来非法地上传和共享那些商业曲目，结果导致了唱片公司对MP3.com提出起诉。抛开这点不提，MP3.com也未能实现其设想的目标。那些在生存线上苦苦挣扎的乐队并没能找到新的听众群，独立音乐制作也并未获得任何改观。相反地，MP3.com为自己赢得了一份不光彩的声誉：一个良莠不分的充斥着大量粗制滥作的音乐集合。

MP3.com的问题在于，它只顾及了长尾。它没有同唱片公司达成版权协议来提供任何主流或流行的商业音乐，因而就没有消费者所熟悉的产品作为入手点，也就失去了进一步开拓的基础。

而只提供流行的东西同样好不到哪儿去。看看那些有线电视公司提供的视频点播服务，或是制片厂们维持的视频下载服务Movielink，无一不在苦苦支撑。过于强势的内容提供方以及过高的成本使得他们能够提供的内容非常有限：通常只是最近发行的几百部片子。由于缺少选择，他们无法影响消费者的行为，也无法成为娱乐经济中一股举足轻重的力量。

与此相比，Netflix，亚马逊（Amazon）以及其它商业音乐服务的成功表明我们必须同时顾及曲线的两个端头。大量的非主流作品库藏让它们变得与众不同，但同时，流行作品仍然是在第一时间吸引顾客的关键。然后，出色的长尾商业才能进一步引导顾客们根据其爱恶，去轻松地探索那些未知的领域。

举例来说，出现在Rhapsody首页上的是Britney Spears（布兰妮），这毫不惊奇。在她的歌曲列表边上有一个列有“同类艺术家”的方框，其中就有Pink（平克）。如果你点击了Pink的链接并且对你听到的感到满意的话，同样还可以继续探索与Pink类似的艺术家，比如说，No Doubt（无疑乐队）。而在No Doubt的页面上列有一些同流派的先驱和追随乐队，其中你会找到Selecter，一个80年代来自英国考文垂的ska乐队（ska是一种牙买加风格的音乐）。通过三次点击，Rhapsody就有可能引导Britney Spears的歌迷们去尝试一个在音像店里很难找到的专辑。

Rhapsody是通过人工编辑与类别引导相结合来向用户进行推荐的。而Netflix（其百分之六十的租借源于推荐）和亚马逊是通过群体过滤的方式，即利用用户的浏览和购买模式来引导那些有相同行为的顾客（“购买此作品的顾客还买了……”）。不管哪种途径，目的是一样的：通过推荐，把顾客的需求朝长尾的方向引导。

这就是推动型模式与拉动型模式之间，广泛性与个性化口味之间的差别。长尾商业通过在大众化产品之外提供众多的个性化定制，从而做到区别对待每一个个体的客户。

所带来的好处是全方位的。对娱乐业自身来说，推荐是一种非常有效的市场营销手段，它使得那些低成本电影和非主流音乐能够找到自己的观众群。对消费者来说，如果好的推荐机制能够让他们得到信噪比更高的、更准确的其他产品信息，这无疑会激发他们进一步探索的兴趣以及唤醒他们对音乐和电影的热爱，从而创造一个更大的娱乐市场。（Netflix的用户平均每月租七部DVD，三倍于那些普通店铺的租借率。）从文化的角度来说，所带来的好处体现在文化的更加多样化，扭转了一个世纪以来由于分销渠道的匮乏而造成的单调乏味局面，并终结了流行文化的专制地位。

这就是长尾的力量。它的时代已经到来。

（完）

The Long Tail
Forget squeezing millions from a few megahits at the top of the charts. The future of entertainment is in the millions of niche markets at the shallow end of the bitstream.
By Chris Anderson


Chris is expanding this article into a book, due out in May 2006. Follow his continuing coverage of the subject on The Long Tail blog.

In 1988, a British mountain climber named Joe Simpson wrote a book called Touching the Void, a harrowing account of near death in the Peruvian Andes. It got good reviews but, only a modest success, it was soon forgotten. Then, a decade later, a strange thing happened. Jon Krakauer wrote Into Thin Air, another book about a mountain-climbing tragedy, which became a publishing sensation. Suddenly Touching the Void started to sell again.

Random House rushed out a new edition to keep up with demand. Booksellers began to promote it next to their Into Thin Air displays, and sales rose further. A revised paperback edition, which came out in January, spent 14 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. That same month, IFC Films released a docudrama of the story to critical acclaim. Now Touching the Void outsells Into Thin Air more than two to one.

What happened? In short, Amazon.com recommendations. The online bookseller's software noted patterns in buying behavior and suggested that readers who liked Into Thin Air would also like Touching the Void. People took the suggestion, agreed wholeheartedly, wrote rhapsodic reviews. More sales, more algorithm-fueled recommendations, and the positive feedback loop kicked in.

Particularly notable is that when Krakauer's book hit shelves, Simpson's was nearly out of print. A few years ago, readers of Krakauer would never even have learned about Simpson's book - and if they had, they wouldn't have been able to find it. Amazon changed that. It created the Touching the Void phenomenon by combining infinite shelf space with real-time information about buying trends and public opinion. The result: rising demand for an obscure book.

This is not just a virtue of online booksellers; it is an example of an entirely new economic model for the media and entertainment industries, one that is just beginning to show its power. Unlimited selection is revealing truths about what consumers want and how they want to get it in service after service, from DVDs at Netflix to music videos on Yahoo! Launch to songs in the iTunes Music Store and Rhapsody. People are going deep into the catalog, down the long, long list of available titles, far past what's available at Blockbuster Video, Tower Records, and Barnes & Noble. And the more they find, the more they like. As they wander further from the beaten path, they discover their taste is not as mainstream as they thought (or as they had been led to believe by marketing, a lack of alternatives, and a hit-driven culture).

An analysis of the sales data and trends from these services and others like them shows that the emerging digital entertainment economy is going to be radically different from today's mass market. If the 20th- century entertainment industry was about hits, the 21st will be equally about misses.

For too long we've been suffering the tyranny of lowest-common-denominator fare, subjected to brain-dead summer blockbusters and manufactured pop. Why? Economics. Many of our assumptions about popular taste are actually artifacts of poor supply-and-demand matching - a market response to inefficient distribution.

The main problem, if that's the word, is that we live in the physical world and, until recently, most of our entertainment media did, too. But that world puts two dramatic limitations on our entertainment.

The first is the need to find local audiences. An average movie theater will not show a film unless it can attract at least 1,500 people over a two-week run; that's essentially the rent for a screen. An average record store needs to sell at least two copies of a CD per year to make it worth carrying; that's the rent for a half inch of shelf space. And so on for DVD rental shops, videogame stores, booksellers, and newsstands.

In each case, retailers will carry only content that can generate sufficient demand to earn its keep. But each can pull only from a limited local population - perhaps a 10-mile radius for a typical movie theater, less than that for music and bookstores, and even less (just a mile or two) for video rental shops. It's not enough for a great documentary to have a potential national audience of half a million; what matters is how many it has in the northern part of Rockville, Maryland, and among the mall shoppers of Walnut Creek, California.

There is plenty of great entertainment with potentially large, even rapturous, national audiences that cannot clear that bar. For instance, The Triplets of Belleville, a critically acclaimed film that was nominated for the best animated feature Oscar this year, opened on just six screens nationwide. An even more striking example is the plight of Bollywood in America. Each year, India's film industry puts out more than 800 feature films. There are an estimated 1.7 million Indians in the US. Yet the top-rated (according to Amazon's Internet Movie Database) Hindi-language film, Lagaan: Once Upon a Time in India, opened on just two screens, and it was one of only a handful of Indian films to get any US distribution at all. In the tyranny of physical space, an audience too thinly spread is the same as no audience at all.

The other constraint of the physical world is physics itself. The radio spectrum can carry only so many stations, and a coaxial cable so many TV channels. And, of course, there are only 24 hours a day of programming. The curse of broadcast technologies is that they are profligate users of limited resources. The result is yet another instance of having to aggregate large audiences in one geographic area - another high bar, above which only a fraction of potential content rises.

The past century of entertainment has offered an easy solution to these constraints. Hits fill theaters, fly off shelves, and keep listeners and viewers from touching their dials and remotes. Nothing wrong with that; indeed, sociologists will tell you that hits are hardwired into human psychology, the combinatorial effect of conformity and word of mouth. And to be sure, a healthy share of hits earn their place: Great songs, movies, and books attract big, broad audiences.

But most of us want more than just hits. Everyone's taste departs from the mainstream somewhere, and the more we explore alternatives, the more we're drawn to them. Unfortunately, in recent decades such alternatives have been pushed to the fringes by pumped-up marketing vehicles built to order by industries that desperately need them.

Hit-driven economics is a creation of an age without enough room to carry everything for everybody. Not enough shelf space for all the CDs, DVDs, and games produced. Not enough screens to show all the available movies. Not enough channels to broadcast all the TV programs, not enough radio waves to play all the music created, and not enough hours in the day to squeeze everything out through either of those sets of slots.

This is the world of scarcity. Now, with online distribution and retail, we are entering a world of abundance. And the differences are profound.

To see how, meet Robbie Vann-Adib�, the CEO of Ecast, a digital jukebox company whose barroom players offer more than 150,000 tracks - and some surprising usage statistics. He hints at them with a question that visitors invariably get wrong: "What percentage of the top 10,000 titles in any online media store (Netflix, iTunes, Amazon, or any other) will rent or sell at least once a month?"

Most people guess 20 percent, and for good reason: We've been trained to think that way. The 80-20 rule, also known as Pareto's principle (after Vilfredo Pareto, an Italian economist who devised the concept in 1906), is all around us. Only 20 percent of major studio films will be hits. Same for TV shows, games, and mass-market books - 20 percent all. The odds are even worse for major-label CDs, where fewer than 10 percent are profitable, according to the Recording Industry Association of America.

But the right answer, says Vann-Adib�, is 99 percent. There is demand for nearly every one of those top 10,000 tracks. He sees it in his own jukebox statistics; each month, thousands of people put in their dollars for songs that no traditional jukebox anywhere has ever carried.

People get Vann-Adib�'s question wrong because the answer is counterintuitive in two ways. The first is we forget that the 20 percent rule in the entertainment industry is about hits, not sales of any sort. We're stuck in a hit-driven mindset - we think that if something isn't a hit, it won't make money and so won't return the cost of its production. We assume, in other words, that only hits deserve to exist. But Vann-Adib�, like executives at iTunes, Amazon, and Netflix, has discovered that the "misses" usually make money, too. And because there are so many more of them, that money can add up quickly to a huge new market.

With no shelf space to pay for and, in the case of purely digital services like iTunes, no manufacturing costs and hardly any distribution fees, a miss sold is just another sale, with the same margins as a hit. A hit and a miss are on equal economic footing, both just entries in a database called up on demand, both equally worthy of being carried. Suddenly, popularity no longer has a monopoly on profitability.

The second reason for the wrong answer is that the industry has a poor sense of what people want. Indeed, we have a poor sense of what we want. We assume, for instance, that there is little demand for the stuff that isn't carried by Wal-Mart and other major retailers; if people wanted it, surely it would be sold. The rest, the bottom 80 percent, must be subcommercial at best.

But as egalitarian as Wal-Mart may seem, it is actually extraordinarily elitist. Wal-Mart must sell at least 100,000 copies of a CD to cover its retail overhead and make a sufficient profit; less than 1 percent of CDs do that kind of volume. What about the 60,000 people who would like to buy the latest Fountains of Wayne or Crystal Method album, or any other nonmainstream fare? They have to go somewhere else. Bookstores, the megaplex, radio, and network TV can be equally demanding. We equate mass market with quality and demand, when in fact it often just represents familiarity, savvy advertising, and broad if somewhat shallow appeal. What do we really want? We're only just discovering, but it clearly starts with more.

To get a sense of our true taste, unfiltered by the economics of scarcity, look at Rhapsody, a subscription-based streaming music service (owned by RealNetworks) that currently offers more than 735,000 tracks.

Chart Rhapsody's monthly statistics and you get a "power law" demand curve that looks much like any record store's, with huge appeal for the top tracks, tailing off quickly for less popular ones. But a really interesting thing happens once you dig below the top 40,000 tracks, which is about the amount of the fluid inventory (the albums carried that will eventually be sold) of the average real-world record store. Here, the Wal-Marts of the world go to zero - either they don't carry any more CDs, or the few potential local takers for such fringy fare never find it or never even enter the store.

The Rhapsody demand, however, keeps going. Not only is every one of Rhapsody's top 100,000 tracks streamed at least once each month, the same is true for its top 200,000, top 300,000, and top 400,000. As fast as Rhapsody adds tracks to its library, those songs find an audience, even if it's just a few people a month, somewhere in the country.

This is the Long Tail.

You can find everything out there on the Long Tail. There's the back catalog, older albums still fondly remembered by longtime fans or rediscovered by new ones. There are live tracks, B-sides, remixes, even (gasp) covers. There are niches by the thousands, genre within genre within genre: Imagine an entire Tower Records devoted to '80s hair bands or ambient dub. There are foreign bands, once priced out of reach in the Import aisle, and obscure bands on even more obscure labels, many of which don't have the distribution clout to get into Tower at all.

Oh sure, there's also a lot of crap. But there's a lot of crap hiding between the radio tracks on hit albums, too. People have to skip over it on CDs, but they can more easily avoid it online, since the collaborative filters typically won't steer you to it. Unlike the CD, where each crap track costs perhaps one-twelfth of a $15 album price, online it just sits harmlessly on some server, ignored in a market that sells by the song and evaluates tracks on their own merit.

What's really amazing about the Long Tail is the sheer size of it. Combine enough nonhits on the Long Tail and you've got a market bigger than the hits. Take books: The average Barnes & Noble carries 130,000 titles. Yet more than half of Amazon's book sales come from outside its top 130,000 titles. Consider the implication: If the Amazon statistics are any guide, the market for books that are not even sold in the average bookstore is larger than the market for those that are (see "Anatomy of the Long Tail"). In other words, the potential book market may be twice as big as it appears to be, if only we can get over the economics of scarcity. Venture capitalist and former music industry consultant Kevin Laws puts it this way: "The biggest money is in the smallest sales."

The same is true for all other aspects of the entertainment business, to one degree or another. Just compare online and offline businesses: The average Blockbuster carries fewer than 3,000 DVDs. Yet a fifth of Netflix rentals are outside its top 3,000 titles. Rhapsody streams more songs each month beyond its top 10,000 than it does its top 10,000. In each case, the market that lies outside the reach of the physical retailer is big and getting bigger.

When you think about it, most successful businesses on the Internet are about aggregating the Long Tail in one way or another. Google, for instance, makes most of its money off small advertisers (the long tail of advertising), and eBay is mostly tail as well - niche and one-off products. By overcoming the limitations of geography and scale, just as Rhapsody and Amazon have, Google and eBay have discovered new markets and expanded existing ones.

This is the power of the Long Tail. The companies at the vanguard of it are showing the way with three big lessons. Call them the new rules for the new entertainment economy.

Rule 1: Make everything available

If you love documentaries, Blockbuster is not for you. Nor is any other video store - there are too many documentaries, and they sell too poorly to justify stocking more than a few dozen of them on physical shelves. Instead, you'll want to join Netflix, which offers more than a thousand documentaries - because it can. Such profligacy is giving a boost to the documentary business; last year, Netflix accounted for half of all US rental revenue for Capturing the Friedmans, a documentary about a family destroyed by allegations of pedophilia.

Netflix CEO Reed Hastings, who's something of a documentary buff, took this newfound clout to PBS, which had produced Daughter From Danang, a documentary about the children of US soldiers and Vietnamese women. In 2002, the film was nominated for an Oscar and was named best documentary at Sundance, but PBS had no plans to release it on DVD. Hastings offered to handle the manufacturing and distribution if PBS would make it available as a Netflix exclusive. Now Daughter From Danang consistently ranks in the top 15 on Netflix documentary charts. That amounts to a market of tens of thousands of documentary renters that did not otherwise exist.

There are any number of equally attractive genres and subgenres neglected by the traditional DVD channels: foreign films, anime, independent movies, British television dramas, old American TV sitcoms. These underserved markets make up a big chunk of Netflix rentals. Bollywood alone accounts for nearly 100,000 rentals each month. The availability of offbeat content drives new customers to Netflix - and anything that cuts the cost of customer acquisition is gold for a subscription business. Thus the company's first lesson: Embrace niches.

Netflix has made a good business out of what's unprofitable fare in movie theaters and video rental shops because it can aggregate dispersed audiences. It doesn't matter if the several thousand people who rent Doctor Who episodes each month are in one city or spread, one per town, across the country - the economics are the same to Netflix. It has, in short, broken the tyranny of physical space. What matters is not where customers are, or even how many of them are seeking a particular title, but only that some number of them exist, anywhere.

As a result, almost anything is worth offering on the off chance it will find a buyer. This is the opposite of the way the entertainment industry now thinks. Today, the decision about whether or when to release an old film on DVD is based on estimates of demand, availability of extras such as commentary and additional material, and marketing opportunities such as anniversaries, awards, and generational windows (Disney briefly rereleases its classics every 10 years or so as a new wave of kids come of age). It's a high bar, which is why only a fraction of movies ever made are available on DVD.

That model may make sense for the true classics, but it's way too much fuss for everything else. The Long Tail approach, by contrast, is to simply dump huge chunks of the archive onto bare-bones DVDs, without any extras or marketing. Call it the Silver Series and charge half the price. Same for independent films. This year, nearly 6,000 movies were submitted to the Sundance Film Festival. Of those, 255 were accepted, and just two dozen have been picked up for distribution; to see the others, you had to be there. Why not release all 255 on DVD each year as part of a discount Sundance Series?In a Long Tail economy, it's more expensive to evaluate than to release. Just do it!

The same is true for the music industry. It should be securing the rights to release all the titles in all the back catalogs as quickly as it can - thoughtlessly, automatically, and at industrial scale. (This is one of those rare moments where the world needs more lawyers, not fewer.) So too for videogames. Retro gaming, including simulators of classic game consoles that run on modern PCs, is a growing phenomenon driven by the nostalgia of the first joystick generation. Game publishers could release every title as a 99-cent download three years after its release - no support, no guarantees, no packaging.

All this, of course, applies equally to books. Already, we're seeing a blurring of the line between in and out of print. Amazon and other networks of used booksellers have made it almost as easy to find and buy a second-hand book as it is a new one. By divorcing bookselling from geography, these networks create a liquid market at low volume, dramatically increasing both their own business and the overall demand for used books. Combine that with the rapidly dropping costs of print-on-demand technologies and it's clear why any book should always be available. Indeed, it is a fair bet that children today will grow up never knowing the meaning of out of print.

Rule 2: Cut the price in half. Now lower it.

Thanks to the success of Apple's iTunes, we now have a standard price for a downloaded track: 99 cents. But is it the right one?

Ask the labels and they'll tell you it's too low: Even though 99 cents per track works out to about the same price as a CD, most consumers just buy a track or two from an album online, rather than the full CD. In effect, online music has seen a return to the singles-driven business of the 1950s. So from a label perspective, consumers should pay more for the privilege of purchasing � la carte to compensate for the lost album revenue.

Ask consumers, on the other hand, and they'll tell you that 99 cents is too high. It is, for starters, 99 cents more than Kazaa. But piracy aside, 99 cents violates our innate sense of economic justice: If it clearly costs less for a record label to deliver a song online, with no packaging, manufacturing, distribution, or shelf space overheads, why shouldn't the price be less, too?

Surprisingly enough, there's been little good economic analysis on what the right price for online music should be. The main reason for this is that pricing isn't set by the market today but by the record label demi-cartel. Record companies charge a wholesale price of around 65 cents per track, leaving little room for price experimentation by the retailers.

That wholesale price is set to roughly match the price of CDs, to avoid dreaded "channel conflict." The labels fear that if they price online music lower, their CD retailers (still the vast majority of the business) will revolt or, more likely, go out of business even more quickly than they already are. In either case, it would be a serious disruption of the status quo, which terrifies the already spooked record companies. No wonder they're doing price calculations with an eye on the downsides in their traditional CD business rather than the upside in their new online business.

But what if the record labels stopped playing defense? A brave new look at the economics of music would calculate what it really costs to simply put a song on an iTunes server and adjust pricing accordingly. The results are surprising.

Take away the unnecessary costs of the retail channel - CD manufacturing, distribution, and retail overheads. That leaves the costs of finding, making, and marketing music. Keep them as they are, to ensure that the people on the creative and label side of the business make as much as they currently do. For a popular album that sells 300,000 copies, the creative costs work out to about $7.50 per disc, or around 60 cents a track. Add to that the actual cost of delivering music online, which is mostly the cost of building and maintaining the online service rather than the negligible storage and bandwidth costs. Current price tag: around 17 cents a track. By this calculation, hit music is overpriced by 25 percent online - it should cost just 79 cents a track, reflecting the savings of digital delivery.

Putting channel conflict aside for the moment, if the incremental cost of making content that was originally produced for physical distribution available online is low, the price should be, too. Price according to digital costs, not physical ones.

All this good news for consumers doesn't have to hurt the industry. When you lower prices, people tend to buy more. Last year, Rhapsody did an experiment in elastic demand that suggested it could be a lot more. For a brief period, the service offered tracks at 99 cents, 79 cents, and 49 cents. Although the 49-cent tracks were only half the price of the 99-cent tracks, Rhapsody sold three times as many of them.

Since the record companies still charged 65 cents a track - and Rhapsody paid another 8 cents per track to the copyright-holding publishers - Rhapsody lost money on that experiment (but, as the old joke goes, made it up in volume). Yet much of the content on the Long Tail is older material that has already made back its money (or been written off for failing to do so): music from bands that had little record company investment and was thus cheap to make, or live recordings, remixes, and other material that came at low cost.

Such "misses" cost less to make available than hits, so why not charge even less for them? Imagine if prices declined the further you went down the Tail, with popularity (the market) effectively dictating pricing. All it would take is for the labels to lower the wholesale price for the vast majority of their content not in heavy rotation; even a two- or three-tiered pricing structure could work wonders. And because so much of that content is not available in record stores, the risk of channel conflict is greatly diminished. The lesson: Pull consumers down the tail with lower prices.

How low should the labels go? The answer comes by examining the psychology of the music consumer. The choice facing fans is not how many songs to buy from iTunes and Rhapsody, but how many songs to buy rather than download for free from Kazaa and other peer-to-peer networks. Intuitively, consumers know that free music is not really free: Aside from any legal risks, it's a time-consuming hassle to build a collection that way. Labeling is inconsistent, quality varies, and an estimated 30 percent of tracks are defective in one way or another. As Steve Jobs put it at the iTunes Music Store launch, you may save a little money downloading from Kazaa, but "you're working for under minimum wage." And what's true for music is doubly true for movies and games, where the quality of pirated products can be even more dismal, viruses are a risk, and downloads take so much longer.

So free has a cost: the psychological value of convenience. This is the "not worth it" moment where the wallet opens. The exact amount is an impossible calculus involving the bank balance of the average college student multiplied by their available free time. But imagine that for music, at least, it's around 20 cents a track. That, in effect, is the dividing line between the commercial world of the Long Tail and the underground. Both worlds will continue to exist in parallel, but it's crucial for Long Tail thinkers to exploit the opportunities between 20 and 99 cents to maximize their share. By offering fair pricing, ease of use, and consistent quality, you can compete with free.

Perhaps the best way to do that is to stop charging for individual tracks at all. Danny Stein, whose private equity firm owns eMusic, thinks the future of the business is to move away from the ownership model entirely. With ubiquitous broadband, both wired and wireless, more consumers will turn to the celestial jukebox of music services that offer every track ever made, playable on demand. Some of those tracks will be free to listeners and advertising-supported, like radio. Others, like eMusic and Rhapsody, will be subscription services. Today, digital music economics are dominated by the iPod, with its notion of a paid-up library of personal tracks. But as the networks improve, the comparative economic advantages of unlimited streamed music, either financed by advertising or a flat fee (infinite choice for $9.99 a month), may shift the market that way. And drive another nail in the coffin of the retail music model.

Rule 3: Help me find it

In 1997, an entrepreneur named Michael Robertson started what looked like a classic Long Tail business. Called MP3.com, it let anyone upload music files that would be available to all. The idea was the service would bypass the record labels, allowing artists to connect directly to listeners. MP3.com would make its money in fees paid by bands to have their music promoted on the site. The tyranny of the labels would be broken, and a thousand flowers would bloom.

Putting aside the fact that many people actually used the service to illegally upload and share commercial tracks, leading the labels to sue MP3.com, the model failed at its intended purpose, too. Struggling bands did not, as a rule, find new audiences, and independent music was not transformed. Indeed, MP3.com got a reputation for being exactly what it was: an undifferentiated mass of mostly bad music that deserved its obscurity.

The problem with MP3.com was that it was only Long Tail. It didn't have license agreements with the labels to offer mainstream fare or much popular commercial music at all. Therefore, there was no familiar point of entry for consumers, no known quantity from which further exploring could begin.

Offering only hits is no better. Think of the struggling video-on-demand services of the cable companies. Or think of Movielink, the feeble video download service run by the studios. Due to overcontrolling providers and high costs, they suffer from limited content: in most cases just a few hundred recent releases. There's not enough choice to change consumer behavior, to become a real force in the entertainment economy.

By contrast, the success of Netflix, Amazon, and the commercial music services shows that you need both ends of the curve. Their huge libraries of less-mainstream fare set them apart, but hits still matter in attracting consumers in the first place. Great Long Tail businesses can then guide consumers further afield by following the contours of their likes and dislikes, easing their exploration of the unknown.

For instance, the front screen of Rhapsody features Britney Spears, unsurprisingly. Next to the listings of her work is a box of "similar artists." Among them is Pink. If you click on that and are pleased with what you hear, you may do the same for Pink's similar artists, which include No Doubt. And on No Doubt's page, the list includes a few "followers" and "influencers," the last of which includes the Selecter, a 1980s ska band from Coventry, England. In three clicks, Rhapsody may have enticed a Britney Spears fan to try an album that can hardly be found in a record store.

Rhapsody does this with a combination of human editors and genre guides. But Netflix, where 60 percent of rentals come from recommendations, and Amazon do this with collaborative filtering, which uses the browsing and purchasing patterns of users to guide those who follow them ("Customers who bought this also bought ..."). In each, the aim is the same: Use recommendations to drive demand down the Long Tail.

This is the difference between push and pull, between broadcast and personalized taste. Long Tail business can treat consumers as individuals, offering mass customization as an alternative to mass-market fare.

The advantages are spread widely. For the entertainment industry itself, recommendations are a remarkably efficient form of marketing, allowing smaller films and less-mainstream music to find an audience. For consumers, the improved signal-to-noise ratio that comes from following a good recommendation encourages exploration and can reawaken a passion for music and film, potentially creating a far larger entertainment market overall. (The average Netflix customer rents seven DVDs a month, three times the rate at brick-and-mortar stores.) And the cultural benefit of all of this is much more diversity, reversing the blanding effects of a century of distribution scarcity and ending the tyranny of the hit.

Such is the power of the Long Tail. Its time has come.
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