How AG1 used influencers to scam the public

Clint Carter once tweeted that 'the secret to making a successful podcast is you have to use Athletic Greens.'

What was the author and editor referring to?

AG1 is a moss-toned powder that costs $99 for a 30-serving bag. It promises to deliver 75 vitamins, minerals, whole-food sourced superfoods, probiotics and adaptogens in one scoop.

The ingredients list is criminally long and full of wellness buzzwords. I mean, WTF is a 'Alkaline, Nutrient-Dense Raw Superfood Complex.'?

The brand claims AG1 is carefully formulated to nourish all the body’s systems holistically.

And their marketing makes you wonder how the human species ever survived before it.

AG1, which is essentially a multivitamin drink, had a meteoric rise in 2022. Every influencer, podcaster and health and wellness blogger appeared to be sponsored by the brand. And they were all claiming it was the solution to those 'hot girl tummy issues.'

Produced here in New Zealand, Athletic Greens quickly raised $115 million in venture capital, and the company’s valuation hit $1.2 billion.

All seems well, right?

Well, yeah. But it’s also, a scam.

AG1's meteoric rise wasn’t just the result of strategic Instagram ads or TikTok influencers.

No, the real magic trick here was turning every podcast host from Tim Ferriss to Joe Rogan into an impassioned ambassador. Each podcaster treated their audience to an array of personal anecdotes about how AG1 had transformed their lives. This added a lot of credibility to the brand’s claims.

But here's where it gets tricky: none of these podcasters or influencers were actual dietitians or medical professionals. Go figure.

They were storytellers with ad slots to fill.

And when you’re getting a healthy cut from AG1’s $99-per-bag price tag, it makes it a little easier to rave about the powder’s miraculous benefits—even if you’re not entirely sure what 'Nutrient-Dense Raw Superfood Complex' actually means. And it didn’t take long for the public to start asking questions about its efficacy.

The backlash against AG1 highlights the classic wellness hustle: promise a lot, deliver very little.

The mossy powder packs in 75 ingredients, including a 'Raw Superfood Complex' and other adaptogens. This all sounds impressive until you realise many of them are underdosed or just plain unnecessary.

For instance, they included magnesium—a mineral athletes actually need—in a measly 6% of the daily recommended value. Is that enough to make it the ultimate athletic supplement?

Critics have pointed out that AG1's claims aren't exactly backed by rigorous science, either. You’d think with a $100+ price tag, they’d have some clinical trials to show for it, but no dice.

The so-called 'superfood' ingredients, like spirulina, come with their own baggage— like potential heavy metal contamination.

At the end of the day, it’s less of a miracle supplement and more of a glorified multivitamin drink dressed up in trendy wellness lingo.

You could get the same nutrients from, I don’t know, eating a balanced diet – or Flintstones vitamins for crying out loud.

Then there's the podcast mafia. Big names like Tim Ferriss and Joe Rogan made AG1 sound like the elixir of life itself.

But the endorsements feel more like ad deals disguised as personal testimonies, and that’s where the line gets blurred.

It makes you wonder, as I so often do with influencer recommendations: were they really chugging AG1 every morning? Or were they just chugging those sponsorship checks?

All this fuss over a scoop of powder tells us one thing: wellness brands will keep pushing the envelope with fancy buzzwords and influencer backing. But when you peel back the layers, is it all just marketing fluff?

AG1's success shines a light on a much larger issue within the wellness industry: it’s often driven by aesthetics and allure rather than evidence.

The $5.6 trillion wellness economy thrives on selling us a vision of health that’s both aspirational and conveniently just out of reach.

It’s all about making us feel like there's always one more supplement, one more product, or one more 'biohack' to achieve optimal health—if you’re willing to pay top dollar.

The brilliance of AG1’s marketing is that it doesn't sell you a multivitamin; it sells you a lifestyle. It's less about the contents of that mossy powder and more about the image of 'wellness' that it projects.

The AG1 ingredients list reads like it came together during a game of wellness buzzword bingo. And that only adds to the illusion of exclusivity.

But the longer the ingredients list, the easier it is to distract consumers from asking critical questions.

Are 75 different components really necessary for a healthy lifestyle? Can a scoop of powder genuinely replace balanced meals and regular exercise? If the answer to those questions is 'not really,' then the industry is kind of selling a fantasy.

AG1 is just one example of how wellness brands market pseudo-scientific jargon as the key to an optimised life, banking on our insecurities and FOMO along the way.

So are all those podcasters advocates or merely actors?

This is where we see the lines between authenticity and advertising blur until they’re barely visible. Podcasters like Tim Ferriss, who have built their personal brands around self-optimisation, were perfect ambassadors for AG1.

When they raved about how AG1 helped them 'feel more energized' or 'hit their health goals,' it wasn’t just a product endorsement. It was a validation of their entire wellness philosophy.

Dig deeper, and it becomes clear that what sounded like a personal testimony was, in many cases, just savvy product placement.

This highlights a recurring problem in influencer marketing, where trust becomes a commodity.

Their audience feels as though they’re getting inside access to the podcaster’s genuine routine. In reality, they're hearing an ad dressed up as a personal anecdote.

The AG1 story isn’t just about one product using misleading marketing. It’s a case study in how influencers wield their power over an audience. It raises ethical questions about where to draw the line between genuine advice and paid persuasion.

For any industry, this kind of marketing is risky.

The more people start to recognise products as glorified placebos, the more an industry will have to reckon with its own credibility. It’s a cautionary tale for marketers: overpromise and underdeliver too many times, and you might end up eroding the very trust you depend on.

-Sophie, Writer