Design school taught me to start early, not to wait

Starting YouTube in 2014 out of curiosity

Muzamil opens the episode by noting that Wasif has been building his digital presence for years, working across photography, YouTube, and commercial projects. Wasif traces his path back to 2014, when he uploaded a simple tutorial on how to retouch skin pores in Photoshop. He was not yet in college, just experimenting. “I started it from a time that I wanted to do it,” he says. His design background came later at NCA, where he studied Visual Communication Design, the formal term for what English calls graphic design.

The calculus of starting work early

The turning point was choosing to work commercially while still in college. Many graduates wait until they finish to take their first job, but Wasif started in his second year, taking freelance design projects from the market. This decision created tension with some teachers who saw it as distraction. “If you start working in the market, make sure you know this thing: that you are working,” he reflects. He argues the advantage is real. By the time peers graduated, they were job-hunting with zero experience. Wasif had polish, a client book, and the confidence to negotiate. “Initially you have to do your job in college. Because it happens when you graduate, you have a pressure that I need a job and I need a lot of money.”

The accidental viral formula

Muzamil asks Wasif to walk through his biggest hits. One video that became unexpectedly viral was a simple haircut comparison: 100 rupees versus 10,000 rupees. “I didn’t know why it was viral. But I didn’t have pranked myself,” Wasif says. The video hit 7 million views in a month, despite zero intent to trick anyone. Muzamil notes this proves a crucial lesson about the creator economy: “Content is king. If your expertise level is not very next level, then it’s your first video. But if it is visually appealing, it works.” Wasif agrees. His India vlogs, which introduced him to millions, were simply him talking to the camera like a friend. No prank framing, no elaborate production, just authenticity.

Drones, legal risks, and the cost of innovation

Wasif bought his first drone, a Mavic Pro, after using one for government work. The purchase was risky for someone his age. On his first real flight, the battery died mid-air over Minarqa Pakistan, a sensitive location with protocol. Police stopped him, confiscated the drone, and he had to negotiate through connections to get it back. He later lost another drone to water. Now he shoots FPV drones, which require goggles and manual flying, not autopilot. This choice separates him from standard vloggers: “It’s a lot of experience for you. It’s a lot of patience.”

Wedding films and the resistance to change

The wedding photography industry in Pakistan, Wasif explains, runs on a seasonal rhythm. Work happens during engagement season (April to September), then creators disappear for six months. Innovation is rare. When Wasif pitched new techniques like wide-angle cinematography and low aperture close-ups, he saw resistance from established photographers. “There is some point and then there is also jealousy. There is also a point that comes when we got this event, why did they get this event?”

Muzamil listens and offers his perspective: “You have a big YouTuber who comes and suddenly takes a whole game. Then you get to exert my power and control.”

Wasif nodded. The industry problem is structural. Young creators entering with fresh ideas collide with an old guard that sees them as threats, not collaborators.

Virality, relatability, and the Dhaneer case study

Muzamil brings up Dhaneer, a creator who became a meme and then a song. Her virality was the result of relatable humor that spread via tagging and user-generated content. Wasif agrees the pattern is clear: “Relatability. The people have seen someone’s face and they don’t see how they did it, because they don’t think they did it.” Virality is not always effort. Sometimes it is luck, timing, and audience psychology.

The copyright desert

A major frustration for Wasif is copyright theft. Brands use his drone shots without permission. TV channels broadcast his photography without asking. He registered his work with the IPO, a 19-month process that yields little recourse. “Because it’s my right,” he says. Yet enforcement is nearly impossible. Major brands like Lays initially tried to use his Lahore fireworks shot without paying properly, offering him 10,000 rupees for work worth far more.

Muzamil notes this is systemic. “Creators now need to unite and really sort of maybe we make a video in which all creators meet with government and fix it.” Wasif agrees. Pakistan’s government has no mechanism to protect digital creators, and the cost of fighting each case is too high.

What’s next: web series and building scale

Wasif is moving toward web series and longer-form content, but sees the barriers. “The crew is very important. You can’t do it alone in the web series.” He is writing screenplays with a collaborator in Islamabad, preparing for Ramadan shoots. His ambition is to make Lahore a center for original web content, a challenge given that Karachi and Islamabad have more momentum. Consistency, not virality, will be the proof.