The cumulative effect of these moments can be staggering, especially with the most extraordinary projects — like the one in which the Man builds an entire wood-framed hut from scratch, complete with mud walls, a door and a window and elegant, Spanish-style clay roofing tiles that have been fired in a kiln, also built from scratch. I’ve watched the video half a dozen times now, and with each viewing I’m nearly overcome by some new intricacy: the cleverly perforated clay disk that becomes the floor of the kiln, suspending the leather-hard tiles neatly above the fire; the small tabs that allow the tiles to be hooked onto the roof beams, so they don’t slide out of place. Taken as a whole, the project seems mystifying, impossible. Seeing all the component steps only makes it exponentially more miraculous.

Of the 22 videos posted since “Primitive Technology” began in May 2015, the tiled hut remains the most popular, with more than 19 million views. But for all the virtuosic craftsmanship, the real draw, I think, is the absorbing peace of watching the Man work: the quiet focus as he weaves a basket from thin strips of palm leaves or patiently gathers flat stones to stack into a hearth. Barefoot and pale, he wears navy cargo shorts and no shirt, and doesn’t speak or look at the camera. We seem to be catching him unawares. As an approach, this comes as a surprising relief. Fans often describe the videos as meditative, or even therapeutic. (“Your videos are the most beautiful thing I have seen on the internet,” one person writes. “They make me feel serene. No talking and no rubbish — just plain, simple work.”) Watching them, especially amid the clamor of YouTube, can feel like leaving a crowded party and stepping out into the cool night air.

You could argue that “Primitive Technology” is just another case of living by proxy through the internet: Rather than actually doing the hard work of making an adz or digging clay out of a riverbank, we sit on our sofas and absorb it passively, as entertainment. No doubt that’s true. But the real joy of “Primitive Technology” isn’t that it won’t give us blisters, but that it gives us a refuge. In a time of exhausting demands on our attention — not least the enervating drama of the postelection news cycle — “Primitive Technology” acts as a quiet corrective, an escape from a surfeit of vanity and strife. The Man isn’t out for our attention. He’s more like the gruff neighbor who let you hang around his workshop when you were a kid, provided you didn’t talk too much. It’s a way to share, vicariously, the rewards of patience and focus. The companionable satisfaction of process.