Tragedies, such as this week’s chopper crash in the sky over the Gold Coast, bring out the best in people.

In the immediate aftermath on Monday afternoon, locals raced to the scene on the northern end of the glitter strip, without a thought for their own safety, to search for life in the murky Broadwater around Sea World.

Tourists from Sydney and Melbourne and further afield held the hand of the critically ill, willing them to keep breathing. Desperate for them to keep living.

We see the same in each of the bushfires that have taken hold in too many states over too many summers, the floods that continue to drown dreams down the east coast, and even in the ballooning donations to random GoFundMe pages, seeking spare change to help someone who needs it.

But each example of selflessness now brings an example of bouts of selfishness. Looters. Voyeurs. Crime merchants. Shonks. Sticky beaks. Those who seem to find value in making money from someone else’s heartbreak.

Over the holidays, not far from where this week’s helicopter accident unfolded, paramedics on the beach warned that those trying to video their work risked getting in their way; appealing for them to put their cameras away, and move on.

Police too have raised the unsightly vision of ‘murder tourists’ turning up to take pictures of a crime scene, once the public address was broadcast on social media.

What have we become? And what is the likely impact of the ghastly real-life videos that fill the news feeds and screens of our social media platforms? And perhaps even more importantly, those of our children?

The Dreamworld accident of several years ago has meant many will never again visit a theme park; social media posts delivered the horror of those at Dreamworld that day to others thousands of kilometres away from where it occurred. And that continues to ring in the ears of some.

This week, some children told their parents that they didn’t want to wander down to the beach for a swim; the irrational fear of another crash in the sky filling their little heads.

Traditional and online media largely proved responsible by not airing the moment of impact of the sky-high chopper crash. But that didn’t stop thousands and thousands of others going in searching of it.

It was the same, recently, when those who murdered the two young Queensland police officers uploaded a video rant, shortly before they were gunned down. While many media outlets, at the request of police, refused to show it, it spread like wildfire on social media, with ‘likes’ multiplying each second.

Real life tragedy is an inescapable part of our daily diet. Porn popping up on websites. House fires taken from every possible angle. Road carnage. Disaster dressed up as news.

At what point do we, as a community, decide enough is enough and question the impact of what is happening around us on our children?

Years ago, parents and educators warned repeatedly that video games, with unreal stick figures, might desensitise young people; the fear that repeatedly seeing a death on screen might have an impact on how they would see the same, in real life.

So why are we not seeing these real life video games as an intruder that could mute empathy, and do irreparable damage to our mental health?

The impact of social media, particularly on our teens, is indisputable. We are battling social media-delivered crises on everything – from body image to cyber bullying.

So isn’t this just as bad? Perhaps even worse?

Ask a teenager, and they will give you a different perspective; mine say taking videos of tragedy and gore might help in crime investigations and that police routinely call for those with videos to come forward.

That’s true, and indeed that is exactly what has happened after this week’s Gold Coast tragedy.

But at what cost?

And how could our lives be even remotely enhanced by the lure of such excruciating heartbreak – whether it’s a car accident, a crime scene or a mid-sky drama that will colour the holidays of too many, forever?