Tubi: The Streaming Underdog That Fox Bet On and Why It’s Not Dead Yet
In the Darwinian bloodsport of streaming, where only the fittest, richest, and most IP-bloated survive, Tubi is the scrappy stray dog that wandered into the colosseum, ate everyone’s lunch, and refuses to be put down. No one saw it coming. Not Netflix, not Disney+, not even the ad-tech overlords who once dismissed ad-supported video as the digital equivalent of a gas station bathroom.
But here we are. Tubi, the free, ad-supported video-on-demand (AVOD) service that started life as a little-known company called AdRise, has grown into an 80-million-user behemoth. It’s the streaming equivalent of a flea market where, against all odds, people keep finding treasures amid the knockoff handbags. And now, with Fox Corporation at the helm, Tubi is sitting comfortably in the increasingly lucrative world of free, frictionless streaming.
So, how did this misfit become a major player while better-funded competitors burned billions chasing an audience that clearly doesn’t want to pay for a dozen streaming subscriptions? Let’s take a long, snarky look at how Tubi went from ignored to indispensable—and the issues it still faces as it navigates the streaming Thunderdome.
Act 1: Nobody Believed in Ad-Supported Streaming
Back in 2011, Farhad Massoudi and Thomas Ahn Hicks founded AdRise, the precursor to Tubi, in an era when streaming was a bougie club with a strict “subscription-only” dress code. At the time, the reigning belief was that ad-supported streaming was for losers—people who couldn't afford HBO or Netflix. The industry was in love with Game of Thrones and House of Cards, spending billions to convince people to shell out cash for content they’d mostly forget to cancel after their free trial.
Tubi’s founders, however, saw the cracks forming. The media landscape was fragmenting like a cheap IKEA bookshelf—not just in entertainment, but in music and news as well. Why should streaming be any different? They bet on an AVOD model that offered a vast, chaotic library of free content, much like YouTube but without influencers screaming at you about merch drops.
Predictably, advertisers scoffed. The whole thing sounded like a garage sale no one wanted to attend.
The industry thought they were nuts. After all, why would people voluntarily watch ads when they could just, you know, pay for ad-free Netflix? But here’s the thing: Not everyone wants to—or can afford to—pay for five different streaming services. And as subscription fatigue set in, Tubi was waiting with open arms and a janky but lovable catalog of movies you hadn’t thought about in years.
Act 2: The Flea Market of Streaming Finds Its Groove
Tubi’s game plan wasn’t about prestige. It wasn’t about competing with the Stranger Things and Mandalorians of the world. Instead, it was about feeding the content-hungry masses with a bizarre but effective buffet of “Wait, I forgot this existed” entertainment.
The strategy worked. People wandered onto Tubi and, before they knew it, they had spent two hours watching some forgotten ‘80s action flick, a guilty-pleasure reality show, or a movie starring Nicolas Cage that somehow didn’t get a theatrical release.
And they kept coming back.
Tubi's library ballooned to over 250,000 titles, making it the largest free streaming service in terms of content volume. The kicker? Most of it was dirt cheap to license, unlike the astronomical production costs bleeding Netflix and Disney dry.
Even better? Tubi’s recommendation algorithm became a sleeper hit. While Netflix uses AI to push its own overpriced originals, Tubi’s system is more like a sentient Blockbuster employee from 1997 who just wants you to watch something fun. The more you watch, the more it finds weirdly perfect things for you—turning casual viewers into loyal, algorithmically brainwashed addicts.
And unlike Quibi (RIP) or the desperate attempts by Peacock and Max to stay relevant, Tubi’s user base just kept growing—no forced sign-ups, no trials that convert into unexpected charges, no begging users to “bundle” their services. It was simple: you show up, you watch, and you leave. Like a good dive bar, it never asks too many questions.
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