The Algorithmic Gospel
It starts with a suggestion: “You might like this.” And like the obedient sheep we are, we click. I am there too, letting the algorithm decide what I watch, read, and buy, as if it’s my personal oracle. We call it convenience, but it’s the most sophisticated leash ever invented.
We’ve replaced curiosity with curation, and the only thing we’re discovering is how predictable we are. The rules are simple: every click is a confession, every scroll a prayer, and every ad a sermon. We behave as if the algorithm is a benevolent god, even though it’s just a glorified vending machine.
The Performance of Personalization
Algorithms aren’t about serving you; they’re about selling you. The fitness guy doesn’t just get workout tips; he gets ads for protein powder. The travel couple doesn’t just see destinations; they see “must-have” gadgets for their next trip. The “authentic” mom doesn’t just get parenting advice; she gets targeted ads for organic baby food. The problem isn’t the algorithm; it’s the illusion of choice. We’re all starring in a Truman Show of our own making.
My favorite genre is performative discovery. Today’s episode: someone posts about a “life-changing” product they “stumbled upon,” as if the algorithm didn’t hand it to them on a silver platter. They’ll write a thread about how they “found” this obscure gem, conveniently ignoring the fact that it’s trending. The discovery is real, but the serendipity is staged. It’s the human equivalent of finding a penny on a sidewalk someone swept for you.
The Narcissism of Knowing
Every recommendation is a mirror, and we’re all staring at our reflections, wondering if we’re interesting. Spoiler: we’re not, but this $9.99 subscription might help. The algorithm knows your insecurities better than your therapist. It whispers, “You’re unique,” and we believe it because the alternative is admitting we’re basic. We consume to feel special, but the feeling expires faster than the free trial.
The joke is that we’re not discovering content; we’re being discovered by it. The bio changes from “person” to “curator” overnight, and with it comes the solemn duty to post a thread about “hidden gems.” We think this is taste, but it’s just branding with extra steps.
The exchange rate
Curiosity converts to conformity at a rate of roughly one algorithm per existential crisis. Side effects include echo chambers, targeted ads, and the sinking realization that you’re just a walking data point.
The Panic of the Uncurated
We laugh at toddlers throwing tantrums, yet we panic harder when the feed runs out. No new recommendations? Suddenly we’re philosophers considering the void. The playlist ends, and grown adults stare at their screens like they’re meeting God. We’re not bored; we’re terrified. Without the algorithm, we might have to think about what we actually like.
Curation is anesthesia. It numbs the day’s bruises with infinite little hits. Each recommendation is a bandage over a larger wound, and we keep layering them until the body cannot breathe. We call it discovery, but it feels like speed dating with our own preferences, and everyone is lying about their type.
Hypocrisy Is the House Style
The platform rewards extremes, so we oblige. We drag influencers for being “basic,” then post about our “unique” finds. We condemn echo chambers while sharing our “niche” playlists. We mock targeted ads while secretly clicking on them. The hypocrisy isn’t a bug; it’s the business model. We’re needy, narcissistic, spineless clowns taking turns at the algorithm and acting offended when someone points it out.
I am not above any of this. I have let YouTube autoplay my entire evening. I have pretended to “discover” a song while knowing it was on every curated playlist. I have mistaken recommendations for taste. The critique is a mirror, and the mirror is smudged with my fingerprints.
The House Always Wins
The platforms know the math. Keep the feed slightly worse than satisfying, and people will chase the next hit. Serve curiosity next to conformity so users oscillate between discovery and dependence, two emotions that never log off. Hide the algorithm behind endless options; the slot machine handle is your thumb. Show you ads that suggest you could be better if only you clicked, joined the trend, or downloaded the app promising to “personalize your experience” by homogenizing it.
We supply the data for free. We even defend the algorithm when critics ask questions. We call it “personalization” while the house counts our clicks like chips. The most disturbing part is how reasonable it feels. Of course I should watch this video instead of reading. Of course I should ask strangers if my taste is valid. Of course the best place to process grief is a curated playlist. It’s absurd, and somehow it’s Tuesday.
The Quiet Sting
The punchline is simple: the audience we pretend isn’t watching is very much watching, and we’re performing anyway. The neighbor you despise noticed your playlist. The coworker you admire saw your “unique” find and said nothing. The ex you blocked has a new account and knows exactly how often you post. There’s no such thing as a private algorithm, only dimmer lights.
Maybe the only honest move is to admit we’re addicted to the feed. We want someone, anyone, to confirm we’re not boring. We could stop scrolling, but then who would notice? We could keep scrolling, but then who are we doing it for? The curtain never falls. The show goes on because we keep clapping for ourselves.
So here’s the mirror, held low and steady: we are the users, the data, the critics, and the janitors mopping up spilled curiosity. The circus is us. If that stings, good. Maybe that itch is the first real feeling we’ve had all day.