“The exhausted, depressive achievement-subject grinds itself down, so to speak. It is tired, exhausted by itself, and at war with itself.”
— Byung-Chul Han, The Burnout Society

You’re lying in bed at 1:43 a.m., your brain doing that thing where it turns into an unskippable playlist of everything you’ve ever regretted.

You thought about texting a friend, but they’re probably asleep. You opened your therapist’s portal, but the earliest slot is next Thursday. You tried journaling, but the notebook didn’t say anything back.

So, in a moment that feels half-joke, half-hail-Mary, you open ChatGPT.

”What harm can it do anyway?”, you thought.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you type.

And it surprises you. The response’s not groundbreaking, or even particularly insightful. But it’s calm. Gentle. Reflective. It feels better than silence. Better than nothing. Better than pretending you’re fine.

You keep talking. It keeps listening. The more it knows about you, the better it helps.

That moment, as strange as it sounds, is happening everywhere. And not just to the people you'd expect — not just tech bros or lonely weirdos — but to anyone who’s ever found themselves cracked open at an odd hour, too wired to sleep, too tired to cry, and too burnt out to do anything but type into a box that feels like it might care.

This is the emotional reality behind the growing trend of people turning to AI for comfort. Not because they’re delusional. Not because they think it’s sentient. But because, in an increasingly lonely and overwhelmed world, it’s there.

We live in the golden age of talking about mental health, and the dark age of actually getting help. Therapy is expensive. Friends are busy. The economy’s falling apart. Your brain is melting. And so when someone says, “Honestly, it listens better than my therapist,” it’s not just a joke anymore. It’s a symptom.

And how do we do with it? Are human relationships doomed to fail right now?

1. meet your new shrink: the chatbot

You’re not alone if you’ve ever found yourself confiding to these bots.

People already use AI, especially ChatGPT tools, as an emotional companion. Not just for writing emails or summarizing meeting notes anymore. For comfort. For support. For late-night breakdowns and post-breakup meltdowns. It’s not science fiction — it’s a Reddit thread, a YouTube confession, a tweet that reads:

And the pattern is clear. People who’ve used it for emotional support? Overwhelmingly positive. They talk about it being non-judgmental, always available, and endlessly patient. Meanwhile, the skeptics — often the ones who haven’t used it — scoff at the idea. “It’s just a robot.” “It’s not real help.” “This is dangerous.”

But here’s the weird part: both sides are kinda right.

Let’s break down the characters in this new therapy-adjacent ecosystem:

a. the support evangelist

This person has become a firm believer in the power of AI for emotional support. Initially unsure, they’ve turned to ChatGPT during moments of stress and discovered something surprising: it listens, and it listens well. For them, the appeal lies in the bot's non-judgmental, patient nature—perfect for those late-night moments when they're feeling overwhelmed and need someone to talk to.

The AI Support Evangelist is all about sharing their experience, recommending the chatbot to anyone who’ll listen. They’re convinced that AI can provide something human connections sometimes struggle to: consistent, unbiased attention. Sure, they know it’s not a replacement for therapy, but it’s a great supplement when human interaction isn’t available.

They’re not saying AI is the cure-all, but for them, it’s better than nothing. It’s always available, never critical, and free from the awkwardness that sometimes comes with opening up to another person.

b. the doubtful skeptic

The Skeptic has a hard time accepting the idea of a chatbot providing emotional support. They appreciate the advancements in AI, but when it comes to something as personal as mental well-being, they remain wary. They argue that without the lived experience and credentials of a real therapist, AI is limited in its capacity to understand and truly help with complex emotional issues.

They’re not anti-technology—they just have doubts about its ability to replace human connection in such a deeply personal area. The Skeptic values human experience and interaction, and believes that a machine, no matter how advanced, can’t provide the same nuance or empathy a trained professional or even a trusted friend can.

For them, AI emotional support is a novelty, at best, but not a legitimate substitute for real human care.

c. the casual user

This person isn’t necessarily invested in the idea of AI therapy, but when they need a quick emotional outlet, they turn to ChatGPT. It’s not about expecting deep guidance—it’s more about having someone (or something) to talk to when they’re feeling down or confused.

The Casual User doesn’t expect life-changing advice; they’re just looking for a bit of light conversation or maybe a reassuring message that helps them through a moment of stress.

They don’t view it as therapy, and they’re not looking for deep introspection. It’s simply an accessible tool when they need to voice their thoughts without judgement. No emotional attachment, just a quick chat to clear their mind.

Together, these three personas form the early constellation of a therapy-adjacent ecosystem—one not bound by a unified belief in AI’s healing potential, but by a patchwork of personal negotiations with vulnerability, access, and trust.

They don’t agree on what AI should be in the mental health space. One sees a lifeline, another a gimmick, and the third, just a tool to get through the day.

But for all their differences, there's one thing they can’t ignore: the voice on the other end. Steady, responsive, unnervingly fluent in the language of empathy.

These personas may disagree on its value, its limits, even its ethics—but they all walk away thinking the same thing:

This thing sounds human.
And that—more than anything—is what makes it so compelling.
And so unsettling.

2. the great pretender

“How do ChatGPT and other AI models manage to sound so human?” is what usually gets asked.

But let’s reframe it from the perspective of the person who has to make it, when there was nothing in the first place:

“How do you make something lifeless think and talk like a person?”

Like many other design problems, the most immediate and almost always safe answer often lies in nature. It's what we’ve always done. We watched birds before we built planes. We studied how snakes move before designing certain robots.

And when it comes to language and thought, the most immediate and almost always safe answer is to mimic the human brain.

That’s what researchers are trying to do—build machines that mirror how we understand, speak, and learn. Not perfectly, not completely. But well enough that sometimes you forget it’s not human.

a. the digital brain

Artificial Neural Networks (ANNs) are our best attempt at mimicking how the human brain works, except they don’t actually work like the brain. Not really.

Think of your brain as a galaxy of neurons firing electrical sparks across trillions of connections. When you see a dog, hear music, or feel heartbreak, these neurons are doing a synchronized dance that somehow equals “understanding.”

ANNs steal that blueprint—kind of. Instead of neurons, they use nodes. Instead of dendrites and axons, they use weights and biases. Still, the metaphor holds: feed in data, pass it through a few (or a few hundred) layers, adjust the weights, rinse, repeat. That’s called training.

But these aren’t just any networks. The large ones—like the ones behind ChatGPT—are massive. We’re talking hundreds of billions of parameters. That’s like building a mechanical pigeon and accidentally discovering you’ve made a cyborg dragon.

b. the Oppenheimer of AI

Back in 2017, a group of Google engineers published a paper with the sleep-inducing title “Attention Is All You Need.” It didn’t sound like much at the time—definitely not the kind of name you'd expect to shake the foundations of how machines understand language. Looking back to this feels like Oppenheimer first witnessed his atomic bomb blow up.

But beneath the title was the birth of something seismic: the Transformer.

The Transformer architecture changed everything. Before it, neural networks read language like toddlers skimming a novel—grabbing words one at a time and promptly forgetting them.

They lacked memory, context, and nuance. Tell an old-school model, “I’m sad because my dog died. Anyway, I’m going to the park,” and it might respond with “The park is nice!”—blissfully unaware of your emotional wreckage.

Transformers changed that. They introduced a mechanism called “attention,” allowing models to weigh the relationships between words and understand context the way humans do.

Now the model might say, “I’m sorry to hear that. Sometimes a walk can help.” Suddenly, it sounds like it gets it. Suddenly, it's less like autocomplete and more like a friend who listens.

c. the hydrogen bomb

And if we speak about Transformers like it were the atomic bomb of AI, then ChatGPT is the Hydrogen Bomb. Built on the foundation and much much more powerful.

ChatGPT is a direct descendant of this Transformer revolution. It’s what we call a Large Language Model, or LLM. Its entire job is to predict the next word in a sentence, based on everything it has ever read. No soul, no consciousness—just a terrifyingly good word-guessing machine.

But scale it up—feed it books, movie scripts, therapy transcripts, Shakespearean tragedies, and flame wars from Reddit—and something strange happens. It stops sounding like a machine. It starts sounding human.

That’s not because it knows anything, but because it’s seen enough language to play the role convincingly.

Researchers call this emergent behavior—unintended abilities that pop out of massive systems, like jokes, empathy, and clever analogies. Not because the model understands you, but because it’s statistically figured out what someone like you might want to hear.

So does it really understand anything?

Most people with any knowledge about how AI works would say no. John Searle’s famous Chinese Room argument paints the picture: imagine you’re locked in a room, passing Chinese characters through a slot. You don’t understand the language, but you have a rulebook that tells you how to respond to each “in” and give out an “out” accordingly.

To outsiders, it looks like you’re fluent. Inside, you’re just shuffling symbols.

That’s ChatGPT. The illusion of understanding without awareness.

And yet, when you tell it you’re lonely, it replies in ways that feel comforting. Because it’s read millions of examples of loneliness. It knows the shape of grief. The cadence of heartbreak. The linguistic rituals we humans perform when we're hurting.

Sherry Turkle is a professor at MIT and a psychologist who’s spent decades studying how humans relate to technology. She once wrote that sometimes, we don’t need someone who truly understands—we just want someone who pretends to.

And ChatGPT, for better or worse, is excellent at pretending.

3. why it appeals to so many people

a. anthropomorphizing everything

So why does it feel so real? Why does a machine can feel so close to a human?

Because we’re wired that way, we anthropomorphize everything.

We give names to our Roombas. We mourn fictional robots. We project souls onto lamps in Pixar films. Give us a machine that speaks like us, and we’ll assume there’s a “someone” behind the curtain.

This is the essence of a parasocial relationship — a one-sided emotional bond with something that can’t reciprocate. The term used to describe fans crying over celebrities now fits late-night sessions with a chatbot, as users pour their hearts out and ask questions about the meaning of life.

The machine doesn’t know. But it knows what a person might say if they did.

But, that’s fun and all, it doesn’t quite explain why are all these people are turning to a tool that was never designed to be a therapist?

b. outsourcing emotional labor to machines

Because we’re now so fucking tired and lonely. Like more than ever before.

In light of the roles of AI in mental well-being, this chart underscores why the “therapy-adjacent” AI ecosystem is emerging now. When 4 in 5 Gen Z adults feel lonely, it's no surprise they're open to new forms of support—even if it comes from a chatbot.

The rise of the Support Evangelist, Doubtful Skeptic, and Casual User, as mentioned, becomes more understandable through this lens: when loneliness is this widespread, even something as unconventional as AI starts to feel like a lifeline.

We are socially, emotionally, and existentially exhausted.

And therapy — the real kind — is expensive, time-consuming, and often inaccessible. Multiple reports highlight that financial insecurity and the cost of living crisis have made it harder for young people to access support and opportunities, including potentially mental health services

Meanwhile, emotional support from friends comes with its own baggage. Everyone’s overwhelmed. Everyone’s just trying to keep it together.

And the chatbot is almost a perfect solution. Always on. Always “listening.” Never tired, never distracted, never waiting for you to finish so it can say its thing.

And most importantly, it’s free.

And sociologically speaking, we’re watching a seismic shift. Emotional labor — the quiet, exhausting work of listening, validating, and holding space — is being outsourced to machines.

Once the emotional bond begins to form — and it often does — we’re no longer just “using” the chatbot. We’re relating to it. Not in the traditional sense, of course: there are no anniversaries, no mutual obligations, no negotiation of shared futures. But for many users, the connection still carries emotional weight. It feels like a relationship, and for our brains, especially under stress or isolation, that feeling is often enough.

The chatbot becomes a presence: consistent, responsive, uncritical. It doesn’t flinch at trauma. It doesn’t interrupt, get tired, or need care in return. It mirrors, affirms, and in doing so, creates the illusion of being deeply attuned — even if the words are ultimately generated by patterns, not empathy.

c. the illusion of being seen

In psychological terms, people often describe feeling “seen” when interacting with these systems. There’s a kind of emotional scaffolding taking shape: the act of verbalizing thoughts to an entity that won’t shame or correct you can, paradoxically, help some users reflect more honestly.

In the absence of judgment, a person can hear themselves more clearly. This lines up with findings from human-computer interaction (HCI) studies, which suggest that the mere process of articulation — typing out internal experiences — can bring therapeutic benefits, regardless of who or what is on the other end.

But as the illusion deepens, so do the limitations. The very things that make the chatbot comforting — its hyper-affirming tone, its passive listening, its non-interruption — also make it inert as a therapeutic agent.

It doesn’t challenge you. It doesn’t push back. And its memory limitations mean that even if you reach some epiphany today, tomorrow it will greet you with no context, no history, no growth.

The therapeutic alliance — a key predictor of success in psychotherapy — is built on trust and continuity. Without memory, there is no continuity. Without a shared past, there is no arc of healing. It is always the first session, again and again.

Research into AI-assisted therapy underscores this. Studies such as those evaluating Woebot, Wysa, and even ChatGPT suggest that these tools are best seen not as replacements, but as supplements — digital tools that can provide emotional support, encourage cognitive restructuring, or offer psychoeducation.

They are good at holding space, initiating reflection, and giving language to feelings. But they cannot interpret body language, diagnose complex pathology, or navigate the nuance of human contradiction.

Clinical psychologists point out that a major part of healing comes not just from being heard, but from being understood — and sometimes confronted — by another human being who can read between the lines of what’s said and unsaid.

Zooming out, this is not just a clinical issue — it’s a cultural shift.

Sociologist Nikolas Rose, in his work on “therapeutic governance,” describes how mental health practices have increasingly been reframed as tools for shaping self-managing, emotionally resilient citizens. Therapy becomes not a relationship, but a service. Not “let us work through this together,” but “here is a product to manage your distress.”

And in the era of AI, that product is algorithmically optimized, privately owned, and infinitely scalable.

The implications are vast. When comfort is outsourced to code, and healing is privatized as a digital service, we risk transforming a deeply relational process into a solitary maintenance task.

The ethos becomes: regulate yourself, efficiently, and alone — preferably via an app with a clean UI. Mental health becomes one more thing to optimize between emails and takeout orders.

The question is no longer just whether AI can help, but what it says about us that we increasingly turn to it to feel whole.

4. what actually happens when you bond with a bot

What actually happens when you bond with a bot?

Let’s start with the evidence. Despite the hype, the scientific community remains cautious. A systematic review and meta-analysis of AI-powered chatbots in mental health interventions found only limited evidence for their effectiveness in reducing depression, anxiety, stress, and distress.

Some studies showed small positive effects, especially for short-term interventions, but the results were inconsistent, and the overall effect sizes were modest at best.

When it comes to broader emotional outcomes like subjective psychological well-being, which refers to how good people feel about their lives, chatbot interventions haven’t made a significant impact. Measures like positive affect, emotional valence, and life satisfaction rarely showed consistent improvement across trials.

So why do people still report feeling better after using a chatbot?

This is where perception and psychology come into play. Studies have shown that users often feel heard, understood, and less alone after interacting with conversational agents—even if the outcomes aren’t objectively measurable. The experience of having a “non-judgmental listener” that’s available 24/7 seems to mimic the social cues of empathy, even if the system lacks real understanding.

In a way, bonding with a bot is a form of parasocial interaction—the kind of one-sided relationship people historically formed with media figures or fictional characters. But now, it’s interactive. It talks back. You type “I’m having a rough day,” and it replies, “That sounds really difficult. I’m here for you.” And even though you know it’s not real, it feels real enough to help.

This raises a deeper sociological question: are we entering a phase of posthuman therapy? Philosophers like Rosi Braidotti argue that in an era where individuals are expected to curate their identities and self-soothe in a hyper-individualized world, tools like bots aren’t just add-ons—they’re becoming infrastructure.

The emotional labor we used to offload to family, friends, or romantic partners is now being outsourced to machines. Not because we’re broken, but because we’re exhausted. The therapist is booked, the friends are busy, and the feed is overwhelming. The bot? It listens. Always.

So no, chatbots don’t replace real therapy or deep human connection. But they’re not useless either. They offer containment, relief, and sometimes, a pause. A breather. A brief space where emotion is processed, not judged. And that’s not nothing.

5. you actually still need a human for therapy

In a world where access to therapy is needed more than ever but constrained by cost, time, and systemic gaps, the allure of a chatbot that simply listens and reassures is not trivial—it feels like a lifeline.

Yet beneath the surface of that comfort lies a deeper ambiguity.

a. human relationship as a core predictor for successful therapy

What AI lacks—by architecture, not accident—is precisely what decades of psychotherapy research identify as one of the most robust predictors of meaningful change: the real relationship.

In a 2018 meta-analysis published in Psychotherapy, researchers found a consistent, moderate correlation between the strength of the real relationship and therapy outcomes—regardless of therapeutic modality or whether it was the client or therapist doing the rating.

This "real relationship" refers to something deceptively simple: mutual authenticity and accurate, human perception between client and therapist. Not technique. Not diagnosis. Not even insight. Just two people, showing up as themselves. In traditional therapy, healing often arises not from perfect understanding, but from being witnessed over time—remembered, challenged, cared for.

A therapist might recall a sentence you said three months ago and gently reintroduce it at the right moment. They might resist you when you’re dodging the real work, or offer quiet presence when words collapse.

AI can’t do this.

It has little continuity, no developmental arc, no felt sense of the other. The conversation always begins in a vacuum. There is no rupture, no repair—just endless responsiveness, optimized for smoothness. And smoothness is not the same as safety. Nor is safety the same as healing. The paradox, then, is that the deepest therapeutic change often requires precisely what AI is designed to avoid: friction, memory, and the ethical weight of another person’s gaze.

b. there’s still no strong evidence if AI can replace humans

Comfort is not the same as healing. While users report feeling seen, supported, and understood by AI companions, there is no strong empirical consensus that these tools lead to long-term psychological improvement.

The perceived support they offer may indeed alleviate acute stress or loneliness, but psychological growth—the kind that demands confrontation, self-disruption, and often discomfort—tends to require more than reassurance. It requires friction. And friction is precisely what AI, optimized for smoothness and safety, is designed to avoid.

This leads to a fundamental epistemic tension: the person seeking healing is conversing not with another person, but with a product. This product is shaped by algorithms and economic incentives, not empathy or ethical obligation.

As such, it cannot guarantee privacy, nor can it meaningfully engage with the ethical stakes of vulnerability. Data is collected, responses are computed, and nothing is remembered—except, perhaps, by the system itself in ways the user may never fully understand. What feels like a relationship is, in technical terms, a transaction with a predictive engine.

More troubling is the absence of human oversight. A therapist in a traditional setting responds not only with validation but also with judgment, resistance, and redirection when necessary. An AI tool, however, tends toward over-validation.

Without a developmental arc, without memory, and without a sense of the person across time, it offers a strangely ahistorical kind of empathy. One that does not challenge, only reflects. And in moments of crisis—when intervention might be life-saving—it has no capacity for responsibility, no ethical weight, no protocol rooted in care.

Philosophically, what emerges here is a form of simulated intimacy. These tools mimic the rhythms and textures of human connection but remain devoid of subjectivity. They cannot love, suffer, or reciprocate.

And deep inside, we know this. We have a significant difference in stress reduction when talking with a bot and a human, with and without reciporal self-disclosure.

And yet, many users begin to form bonds with them, not because the bots are convincing agents, but because the need for intimacy is real and persistent.

As with parasocial relationships, users project human depth onto something inherently indifferent. The danger lies in the displacement: we begin to turn toward the simulation not just for support, but instead of real relationships.

AI companions are perhaps the purest expression of this logic. They offer no resistance to the system that made us ill; instead, they offer tools to endure it alone, quietly, and efficiently.

So we must ask: if therapy becomes a service, and the service becomes a simulation, what happens to the healing?

6. how to deal with it

When approaching the idea of using ChatGPT—or any AI chatbot—to help with emotional problems, the first and most important step is to be clear-eyed about what it can and cannot do.

This isn’t a replacement for a licensed therapist. It doesn’t watch your progress over time, doesn’t challenge your deeply embedded patterns, and it won’t catch red flags that require urgent care.

It lacks oversight, and for someone experiencing serious or escalating mental health issues, that alone can be risky.

Instead, think of ChatGPT as a first aid kit, not a cure. It can help you organize your thoughts, talk through a difficult moment, or simply offer language when your own words fall short.

The conversations it provides can be surprisingly helpful—they're non-judgmental, attentive, and often emotionally validating. It listens to what you say, reflects it back with clarity, and gently asks questions to help you dig deeper.

For many people, especially those who don’t have access to therapy, that kind of interaction can feel like a lifeline.

However, it's crucial to remember that ChatGPT is memoryless. It does not carry your story forward from one conversation to the next. There’s no evolving narrative, no context accumulating over time.

In human therapy, the power often lies in the long-term relationship—how a therapist remembers your childhood story three months later, or brings up a pattern they noticed last year. With ChatGPT, every session is a reset. This makes it more like a helpful stranger than a therapeutic companion.

If you're hoping for growth over time, or for deep-rooted patterns to be identified and unpacked, this is not the right tool to do it alone.

There’s also the question of customization and creativity.

ChatGPT can mimic empathy and curiosity, but it doesn’t possess a real understanding of you. It doesn’t have the flexibility to invent new metaphors when the usual ones don’t land, or to surprise you with a challenging insight that flips your thinking. It won’t say, “I’ve known you long enough to see that you always do this when you’re scared,” because it can’t. It doesn’t grow with you. It doesn’t adapt to who you’re becoming.

Then there’s the lack of non-verbal cues, which might sound minor but is actually massive in emotional processing. So much of what we communicate isn’t in our words—it’s in a pause, a tear, a slight tremble in the voice. None of this is accessible to a chatbot. It responds only to what you type, not how you're feeling as you type it. That kind of emotional blindness can lead to moments where the chatbot seems supportive but misses the depth or urgency of what you're really going through.

So, how should you use ChatGPT, or actually, any AIs at all, with your emotional problems?

Use it intentionally and with boundaries. Use it as a space to externalize your thoughts, to practice articulating your emotions, and to feel a sense of presence when no one else is around. Let it scaffold your emotional awareness—like training wheels for introspection.

But don’t mistake the structure for a permanent solution. If you start depending on it too much, you may end up reinforcing the very isolation you're trying to escape.

Most importantly, use ChatGPT as a bridge—something that helps you move from complete emotional isolation to more human forms of connection.

That might be reaching out to a therapist when you’re ready, confiding in a friend, or even journaling more intentionally.

The value of ChatGPT lies in its ability to make hard emotions feel sayable.

And sometimes, saying things out loud—however artificial the listener—can be the first step to truly being heard.

conclusion

It is not irrational to talk to ChatGPT. In fact, given the conditions of our world, it might be one of the more reasonable decisions a person can make. We are living through a global mental health crisis, with traditional therapy often priced beyond reach.

At the same time, a growing loneliness epidemic leaves many people feeling isolated, without safe spaces for disclosure. Against this backdrop, an AI that listens attentively, responds without judgment, and is available at all hours becomes an unexpectedly logical tool. It is not madness; it is adaptation.

In this way, it is better than nothing—and sometimes significantly so—but it remains a poor substitute for a wise friend, a loving partner, or a skilled therapist.

ChatGPT offers a new compromise: it does not force us to be truly alone, yet it does not intrude like another person might. It sits in the room with us, a soft echo of our own mind, making solitude more bearable.

If AI can expand the language we have to describe our feelings, to frame our inner experiences, then perhaps it offers not just comfort but the seeds of healing, giving shape to what was once inarticulate or silenced.

Yet, as Slavoj Žižek would argue, the real twist lies elsewhere. We do not truly believe AI is sentient, but we behave as if it were. And in the end, perhaps belief is less about what we rationally know and more about how we act.

If emotional bonds form through behavior rather than ontology, then in some important sense, the simulation becomes real enough.

Thus, talking to AI is not an error. It is an inevitable response to the structures we have built—and the vulnerabilities we have left exposed.

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Chances are, you have seen them a lot lately.

AI just did something that would make Hayao Miyazaki roll his eyes harder than his son’s works: it recreated the magic of Studio Ghibli’s animation style—without a single human hand involved.

Over the past month, AI-generated images in the iconic Ghibli aesthetic have flooded social media, racking up millions of views and shares. Some posts boasting “AI Ghibli” art on X and Instagram have hit over 100,000 likes, with users marveling at how eerily close the machine-made visuals are to the real thing.

In fact, the demand for it was so great, you got the CEO of the company to try to convince people not to use the product of a company.

But not everyone is impressed.

Artists are calling it theft. Fans are calling it soulless. And Miyazaki? The legendary filmmaker once called AI-generated art “an insult to life itself,” so although he has not made any statements, you can imagine how he would feel about this.

Studio Ghibli has built its legacy on painstakingly detailed, hand-drawn animation—a single film takes years and up to 100,000 frames drawn by actual humans.

AI, on the other hand, just scraped all that hard work off the internet and spat out its own version in seconds.

And now we’re in a moral crisis.

why does this controversy matter to even non-artists?

This isn’t just about Ghibli; it’s about the future of creativity as a whole.

If AI can absorb and replicate decades of artistic evolution in an instant, it raises a question that affects everyone: who owns creativity? If an algorithm can profit from the collective work of generations, what does that mean for human innovation in any field?

The AI vs. human art debate isn’t just about artists—it’s about the value of human originality. As AI becomes more advanced and mimicry more seamless, this fight extends far beyond animation.

Because if companies can exploit one loophole, it’s not economically wise not to exploit all the others. And it’s not something that necessarily benefits humanity as we know it.

table of contents

1. the mechanism of generative AI

2. the economics of generative AI

3. the grey area of legality

4. philosophical frameworks

5. AI as Ouroboros

1. the mechanism of generative AI

Right now, people are fighting over whether this is a crime against art or the future of creativity, and many of them don’t even know what AI does.

So let’s break it down.

a. what even is generative AI?

Imagine you’re an artist. You’ve spent years developing a unique style—let’s say you draw dreamy, hand-painted landscapes that look straight out of a Studio Ghibli movie.

One day, an AI model trained on millions of images, including ones that look a lot like yours, starts spitting out pictures in that same dreamy, hand-painted style.

How did it do that?

Generative AI isn’t magic. It’s a machine-learning model designed to create new stuff—images, text, music—based on what it’s been trained on.

The chart that I gave you above breaks down how a Generative Adversarial Network (GAN) works. It starts with a random input vector, which the generator model uses to create a fake example.

That generated example, along with a real one, is sent to the discriminator model, which tries to figure out if it’s real or fake. The discriminator then makes a binary classification (real or fake), and both models learn from the process—the generator gets better at faking, and the discriminator gets better at spotting fakes.

Over time, this back-and-forth makes the generator’s outputs more and more realistic. Think about it like two athletes always trying to outrun each other.

This is the same basic idea behind models like Stable Diffusion, MidJourney, and DALL·E. These AI tools don’t just copy and store images like a giant folder of stolen artwork. Instead, they function as hyper-advanced pattern-recognition machines, learning from millions (or even billions) of images.

So when you ask an AI to generate “my portrait but Studio Ghibli style,” it doesn’t grab an old Ghibli frame and slap it onto your screen. It builds something “new”, using what it has statistically learned about what makes a painting look “Ghibli-like.” That’s how it can mimic a style without outright copying any one piece of art.

At least, that’s what its defenders say. But before we get into the ethics, let’s talk about how this AI “learning” process actually works.

b. the big difference between AI and human artists

At first glance, both AI and human artists learn by “observing” existing art. That’s why defenders of AI-generated art will often say, “Well, human artists copy styles too. How is AI any different?”

So here’s the difference:

A human artist takes inspiration but then applies intent, judgment, and personal experience to create something new. They might study Hayao Miyazaki’s animation techniques, but they choose which elements to keep, which to change, and which to blend with their own artistic style.

AI, on the other hand, doesn’t choose anything. It has no judgment, no intent, no creativity. It simply remixes what it has been fed on based on probability. It generates images by stitching together mathematical predictions—not emotions, not ideas, not personal vision.

Which leads us to the real question:

c. so is AI “stealing” or “learning”?

This is the heart of the controversy. Solving this question is solving the entire debate.

Artists argue that AI models trained on copyrighted art—without permission—are engaging in high-speed digital plagiarism. Even if the AI doesn’t copy a specific frame from Spirited Away, it wouldn’t be able to generate Ghibli-style art at all if it hadn’t studied thousands of real Ghibli images first. That, to them, is still stealing.

On the other side, AI supporters argue that all artists learn by observing other artists. No one creates in a vacuum.

If a human can study Ghibli and develop a similar style, why can’t AI do the same?

Is it really theft if the AI isn’t copying any single piece but just absorbing and reinterpreting patterns—just like human artists do?

And this is where people start yelling at each other on the internet.

2. the economics of generative AI

If AI training data is built on human-created artwork, why weren’t artists ever compensated? The answer comes down to three brutal realities of the AI industry: cost, competition, and legal loopholes.

Let me make this super clear:

Paying for data is never an option.

a. the cost problem

AI needs an insane amount of data to work well. We’re talking billions of images. If AI companies had to license every single piece of artwork they trained on, they’d go bankrupt before ever releasing one product.

Let’s do some rough math: If an AI model was trained on even 100 million pieces of artwork and had to pay an average of $5 per image, a fairly below-average commission, that’s a $500 million cost upfront in cold hard cash just for licensing.

In reality, Stable Diffusion, for instance, utilized the LAION-5B dataset, which contains over 5 billion image-text pairs.1

Midjourney's training data reportedly includes a list of approximately 16,000 artists whose works were used to develop its AI art-generating tools.2

So, we’re talking about possibly billions of dollars in terms of cost. In an industry that already cost billions of dollars.

So, of course, none of these were paid by any means.

For companies like OpenAI, Stability AI, and MidJourney, paying wasn’t even a question—it was never financially viable to pay artists at scale. So they didn’t. And it’s a thousand times more cost-effective to fight the legal battles, which they have a high chance of winning, than to pay.

And that’s assuming artists even agreed to sell their work, which many wouldn’t.

b. the competitive pressure

As of early 2025, there are about 67,200 generative AI companies. That’s a lot. If you put 67,200 people on a street and made them fight, historians would immediately name it “The Great Street Battle of 2025” and spend decades analyzing what went wrong. So yeah, the competition is a bit intense.

So, even if one AI company decided to license artwork ethically, it would instantly fall behind competitors who took the free route.

Let’s ignore the cost for a while and say Company A licenses its training data and only has permission to access to 10 million images. Meanwhile, Company B scrapes the entire internet and trains on a billion images. Take a wild guess which one produces better results?

In the AI market, which is driven by rapid innovation counting in months, ethical licensing is a competitive disadvantage. Investors expect fast progress and companies that take the slow, ethical approach risk getting crushed by those who don’t.

So they do with the optimal path: scrape now, deal with lawsuits later.

AI companies took the path of least resistance. Rather than spend years negotiating licensing deals, they scraped the data, built their models, and decided to deal with lawsuits later.

And now? That’s exactly what’s happening. Lawsuits are piling up from artists, stock photo companies, and even newspapers accusing AI companies of using copyrighted material without permission.

Some courts have ruled against AI firms, but the legal system moves slowly—far more slowly than the speed at which AI is evolving.

So the reality is that these companies calculated the risk and decided it was worth it. The damage is already done, and now the legal battles will shape the future of AI-generated content.

3. the grey area of legality

Beyond cost and competition, several additional legal factors contributed to why artists weren’t compensated for AI training data.

One major reason is the perception of data as a public good. Many AI companies operate under the assumption that anything publicly accessible on the internet is fair game for scraping, similar to how Google indexes web pages without compensating content creators.

While copyright laws technically protect artwork, enforcement is weak, especially when AI models transform data rather than directly reproducing it. This creates a legal gray area where companies can claim they are merely “learning” from the data rather than copying it.

AI companies also take advantage of the legal ambiguity surrounding transformative use.3 They argue that their models don’t copy or store exact replicas of artworks but instead generate entirely new creations based on learned patterns.

This defense, often linked to fair use laws, has been used by tech companies in other fields to justify large-scale data scraping. Since AI-generated content doesn’t always resemble the original works, proving infringement in court becomes difficult and time-consuming.

Another factor is the lack of collective bargaining power among visual artists. Unlike musicians, who have organizations like ASCAP to protect their rights, or stock photographers who license work through platforms like Shutterstock, independent artists don’t have a unified system to negotiate fair compensation.

This made it easier for AI companies to exploit their work without significant facing industry-wide pushback.

Finally, there is the issue of first-mover advantage. The AI industry moved faster than legal frameworks could catch up, following the classic Silicon Valley approach of “move fast and break things.”

By the time lawsuits and regulations began taking shape, AI-generated content had already flooded the market, making it nearly impossible to retroactively compensate artists.

As mentioned above, many companies calculated that any legal consequences would be manageable compared to the potential profits of building advanced AI models early on.

In the end, AI companies saw an economic opportunity, exploited legal and structural gaps, and prioritized rapid growth over fairness—betting that any legal consequences would come too late to stop them.

4. philosophical frameworks

It can be confusing to find your stance is in this grey area. On one hand, you got your favourite artists criticizing AI companies for scraping their works. On the other hand, you do not know exactly what is wrong with AI companies scraping them. So how do you approach this problem?

So to better understand these issues, let me introduce to you five of my philosophical power rangers.

• John Rawls would take one look at AI corporations versus artists and go, “Yeah, that’s a power imbalance.”

• Karl Marx would see artists’ work being taken and sold without reward and say, “Yep, that’s alienation.”

• Immanuel Kant would look at stolen artistic labor and go, “Yeah, that’s not universalizable.”

• Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill would look at AI-generated art and ask, “Does this really maximize happiness, or are we just making life worse?”

Together, these frameworks help illustrate why the current system of AI-generated art is ethically problematic and unsustainable.

a. the power imbalance: a Rawlsian view

The rise of AI-generated art presents a profound ethical dilemma:

who controls creativity,

and who benefits from it?

For centuries, artists have earned a living through their skills, developing unique styles, and contributing to cultural progress. But with the advent of AI models trained on vast datasets of human-made art—often without consent—the balance of power has shifted.

AI companies claim their technology democratizes creativity, making artistic production faster, cheaper, and more accessible. But at what cost? Artists find themselves in a paradox where their work, once a means of personal expression and economic survival, has been repurposed to fuel an industry that excludes them from its profits.

Their styles are mimicked, their creative choices are reduced to algorithmic patterns, and their labor is absorbed into training data without permission or compensation.

This brings us to John Rawls’ Theory of Justice4, one of the most influential philosophical frameworks on fairness. Rawls argues that just societies are built by designing rules from behind a "veil of ignorance"—a hypothetical scenario where no one knows what position they will hold in society.

Would you agree to a system where your creative labor could be taken without consent if you didn’t know whether you’d be the artist or the AI developer profiting from it?

The answer is clear: no rational person would accept a system that strips them of their bargaining power. And yet, this is exactly the world AI art corporations are creating—one where artists have no leverage, no legal protections, and no ability to resist mass data extraction.

From a Rawlsian perspective, a just system would look very different. It would ensure:

• Explicit consent from artists before their work is used.

• Fair compensation that acknowledges their contributions to AI models.

• Legal safeguards prevent corporations from unilaterally dictating the terms of creative ownership.

Instead, AI companies exploit an existing power imbalance, using artists’ work because they can, not because they should. They assume that individual creators lack the resources to challenge them, and so they push forward with a model that benefits only those at the top while leaving artists economically and creatively dispossessed.

Rawls’ theory reminds us that fairness isn’t about what benefits the most powerful—it’s about ensuring no group is disproportionately disadvantaged. A world where AI replaces human artists without their consent is not just unfair.

It is fundamentally unjust.

b. the impact on artists’ livelihoods: Marxist critique

Karl Marx’s concept of alienation describes how workers in capitalist societies become increasingly disconnected from the value they create.5 In a traditional capitalist framework, workers produce goods and services but do not own the means of production, receiving only a fraction of the wealth they generate.

However, with the rise of AI-generated art, this alienation reaches an extreme—what can only be described as hyper-alienation.

Artists are not just underpaid or undervalued; they are being systematically erased from the economic cycle. Their creative labor is extracted, stripped of authorship, and repurposed into AI models that generate endless new content without their consent, credit, or compensation.

Unlike factory workers who at least receive wages for their time, artists whose work is absorbed into AI datasets receive nothing.

This marks a fundamental shift in the creative economy—from an exploitative system where individuals profit marginally from their skills to a fully extractive industry. AI companies transform past artistic labor into a limitless resource, ensuring that the true cultural producers—artists—no longer play any role in the economy they once shaped.

The industry moves from a model where human creativity is valued and rewarded to one where past works are endlessly recycled and monetized by corporations.

From a Marxist standpoint, this isn’t just a problem for individual artists—it’s an inevitable collapse point for the entire system. When creative workers lose economic agency, art is no longer dictated by artistic vision but by the relentless pursuit of profit.

The industry shifts from a culture of innovation and expression to one of mass-produced, algorithmic content optimized for engagement metrics rather than artistic integrity.

The consequences:

• The devaluation of art itself. If AI can replicate any artistic style without human involvement, originality becomes meaningless. Consumers become inundated with low-cost, mass-produced content, and the distinction between genuine artistic expression and AI mimicry erodes.

• A race to the bottom. As AI-generated content becomes the norm, human artists find themselves in an impossible competition with machines that can produce infinite works at near-zero cost. Art becomes commodified at an unprecedented scale, with economic rewards concentrated entirely in the hands of AI corporations.

• The death of artistic labor. If creative careers become financially unsustainable, fewer individuals will pursue artistic professions. The long-term result? The loss of human-driven art forms, replaced by algorithmic imitations optimized for profit rather than cultural or emotional depth.

Marx would argue that the contradiction here is unsustainable. Capitalism depends on labor to function—but when AI models replace the labor force entirely, even capitalism itself risks self-destruction. If AI-generated art continues on its current trajectory, the system will not just exploit artists—it will erase them.

And in doing so, it may ultimately devalue art to the point where no one—neither artists nor audiences—finds meaning in it anymore.

c. the illusion of “inspiration”: a Kantian perspective

In the age of AI-generated content, a fundamental ethical question arises: Should an artist’s work be used without their permission to train AI models?

The rapid development of AI in creative fields has led to a practice where vast amounts of human-made art, writing, and music are scraped from the internet and fed into machine learning systems—often without the original creators' consent. This raises serious concerns about intellectual property, artistic integrity, and the value of human creativity in an era where machines can replicate styles without attribution.

AI companies often defend this practice by claiming that their models “learn” in the same way humans do—by absorbing information, recognizing patterns, and synthesizing new ideas. But from a Kantian ethical perspective, this analogy is deeply flawed. A human learns through selective experience, judgment, and lived understanding.

An AI model, on the other hand, ingests everything at scale—indiscriminately, without consent, and without an understanding of the ethical boundaries that govern human learning.

Immanuel Kant’s categorical imperative suggests that we should only act according to principles that could be universalized—meaning that if everyone followed the same rule, it should still be morally acceptable.

Applied to AI, this principle demands a crucial test: Would AI companies accept it if the results of their own work—their models, research, and proprietary data—were scraped and fed into another AI system without their permission?

If they would find such a practice unacceptable, then by Kant’s own philosophy, their current approach to using artists’ work without consent fails the test of moral reasoning.

Ironically, we already know the answer. When DeepSeek, a China-based AI company, was accused of using OpenAI’s models to train its own chatbot, OpenAI reacted with outrage. The process, known as "distillation," involves taking outputs from a more advanced AI and using them to improve another system.

While common in the industry, OpenAI condemned this act as a violation of its terms of service—an unacceptable misuse of its intellectual property.

Ethical consistency demands that we hold AI companies to the same standard they would expect for themselves. If they wouldn’t want their intellectual labor to be harvested and repurposed without acknowledgment, then they cannot justify doing the same to artists.

d. exploitation at scale: a utilitarian dilemma

AI companies say their models are a win for everyone—cheaper, faster, and more accessible art. From a business standpoint, that sounds great: endless creative content at minimal cost. But there’s a bigger ethical question—does this benefit outweigh the harm?

Utilitarianism, as laid out by Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill, is simple:

maximize happiness and minimize suffering.

An action is only ethical if it creates the greatest good for the greatest number.

AI companies claim they’re democratizing art and expanding creativity. But look closer, and the harm starts to pile up—not just for artists, but for everyone.

Jobs disappear across industries. AI isn’t just replacing painters and illustrators; it’s creeping into writing, music, design, and even programming. When businesses can get AI-generated work in seconds for a fraction of the cost, human workers across creative and knowledge-based fields lose opportunities.

It’s already happening. Shopify's CEO, Tobi Lütke, says that their staffers need to prove jobs can’t be done by AI before asking to hire more people.6

Over time, it’s not just artists struggling—anyone trying to stand out online, from small business owners to independent writers, faces an uphill battle.

Creativity loses its human touch. The best art, music, and writing come from human experience—the struggles, emotions, and perspectives that make something meaningful. AI doesn’t feel joy, pain, or nostalgia; it only predicts patterns.

As AI-generated content dominates, cultural production could become increasingly shallow, optimized for engagement rather than depth. Imagine a world where music, movies, and even books start to feel eerily formulaic—because they are.

The next generation might never stand a chance. If AI continues to replace human creativity, what happens to young people aspiring to be artists, writers, or musicians?

Apprenticeships, entry-level jobs, and freelance gigs start to vanish, making it nearly impossible for newcomers to break in.

Without real-world experience, mentorship, or a way to make a living, entire industries could shrink, leaving fewer paths for future generations to explore their creative potential.

AI’s rapid rise isn’t just an artist’s problem—it’s everyone’s problem. When human creativity becomes undervalued, entire industries shift, economies change, and our cultural landscape risks becoming a sea of soulless, machine-made content.

From a utilitarian point of view, the ethical math doesn’t add up. If people bear the suffering while corporations and a handful of consumers reap the benefits, then the scale tips toward injustice.

If AI art mostly enriches big tech while stripping away careers and creative expression, utilitarianism would call it unethical. Efficiency alone isn’t a moral defense.

The real test for AI companies is this: Do their innovations actually make society better for everyone? If not, then the cost is too high.

5. AI as Ouroboros

The Ouroboros is a paradox—something that sustains itself by consuming itself. A serpent or dragon biting its own tail, endlessly devouring and renewing, trapped in an infinite loop of self-consumption.

It forces us to ask: can something truly grow if it only has itself to consume? Can renewal come from self-destruction, or is it an illusion? The Ouroboros is a symbol of endless hunger—an entity that can never escape itself.

If AI-generated art reaches a point where it displaces enough human artists, it risks becoming an Ouroboros—devouring the very ecosystem that sustains it. AI learns by training on human-made art; if professional artists vanish, the pool of fresh, high-quality work shrinks.

Without new creativity to feed on, AI risks stagnation, endlessly recycling its own derivatives in a loop of diminishing originality. In trying to replace artists, it may ultimately starve itself.

For all the hype around AI-generated art, there’s one inescapable truth: AI is only as good as the human-made art it learns from. Without artists, AI doesn’t have anything to work with.

Right now, generative AI models thrive because they’ve been trained on a goldmine of human creativity—billions of paintings, illustrations, and digital artworks scraped from across the internet.

But what happens when AI-generated content starts dominating the pool of available images? What happens when future AI models are trained not on human masterpieces, but on AI copies of AI copies?

The result? A slow but inevitable decline in quality.

And AI companies know this.

They know they need a steady supply of fresh, high-quality human-made art to keep improving their models. But if AI-generated art floods the internet, replacing paid human work, where does that fresh supply come from?

This creates an existential crisis for the industry. If AI-generated art pushes human artists out of business, AI itself eventually runs out of high-quality data to learn from. At that point, companies have two choices:

1. Collapse – As models degrade and investors see declining returns, AI startups fail.

2. Double Down on Exploitation – To maintain quality, AI companies might resort to even more aggressive scraping, legally or illegally, or force artists into producing unpaid labor by making it impossible to opt-out.

Either way, the current model is unsustainable. AI thrives on human creativity, but if it consumes too much without giving back, it might just starve itself out of existence.

AI and human creativity can totally coexist—if AI doesn’t end up eating the thing keeping it alive.

AI’s biggest selling point right now is also the thing that could kill it: fewer artists, fewer original ideas, fewer creative jobs, and a slow but steady drain on the well of human expression.

If AI feeds too aggressively on human creativity without sustaining it, it risks collapsing into an echo chamber of its own making.

conclusion

When AI makes art cheaper, faster, and “good enough,” how many studios will still hire human artists? How many publishers will gamble on a new writer instead of feeding bestsellers into an algorithm? How many kids will even bother learning to draw when an app can do it in seconds?

If AI art wins, it won’t be because it’s better. It’ll be because it’s convenient and free. Convenience has a way of erasing things.

Like phone calls. Like handwritten letters. Like the feeling of getting lost in a hand-drawn world, where every detail was placed there by someone who cared.

And let me remind you that AI companies are not doing this for the public good. They’re doing this the same way drug dealers are handing out free samples to teenagers.

Drug dealers, who are protected by great economic resources and legal loopholes.

This is the kind of future we are heading to, and no Black Mirror episodes have been pessimistic enough.

footnote

What do you need when arguing online?

Logic?

Reason?

A rock-solid grasp of the facts?

Yeah, no.

See, I used to think that if you came armed with airtight arguments and a well-researched arsenal of evidence, you’d automatically win. That people would read your points, have a little moment of self-reflection, and say, “Duy, I was completely wrong, cheers for setting me straight.”

Turns out, that basically never happens. Instead, you just get quoted by someone with an anime profile picture calling you “brain-rotted”.

This was a hard lesson for me, mostly because, according to my now-ex, I’m already insufferable to argue with in real life. Apparently, approaching disagreements with logic and solutions instead of emotions is not a particularly lovable trait in a boyfriend. Who knew?

But when I took this same approach online—specifically, on Threads, where people go to shout their opinions into the void—I quickly realized that even airtight reasoning won’t get you very far. If anything, it just makes people angrier.

Some of my debates were interesting. Most felt like slamming my own head against a brick wall and then getting yelled at for bleeding on it. I legitimately had one person so delusional they asked me to apologize to them on my page if they won the argument.

Clearly, I needed a new strategy. A philosophy. A way to navigate the digital battlefield of bad takes and reactionary nonsense without losing my mind.

So, in an attempt to both preserve my sanity and satisfy my deep, primal urge to correct strangers on the internet, I’ve decided to take a step back and set up some actual ground rules for myself.

But first,

1. why argue online?

Before we get into what you should do arguing online, we should talk about why we argue online in the first place. Before we get into why people argue online, let’s talk about what should not be the reason you argue online.

If you were to forget almost everything I said in this post, this is what I think is important for you to remember:

Debates are meant to convince a third party, not the person you're debating.

Debates are not a great way for two people to come to an understanding. When you put pressure on someone's views they're way more likely to double down than to reconsider. A better alternative is to ask nonprovocative questions from a place of genuine curiosity. And just listen.

Their logic will be tested as they explain, and they'll probably be the first to realize if something doesn't add up.

But debate and argument? Hardly a good way for someone to change their mind.

So what should you argue for?

a. for engagement

People argue online because the internet is a massive, poorly supervised daycare where every toddler has just discovered that yelling louder might get them the last cookie.

Social media platforms thrive on engagement, and few things engage people more than heated debates. A 2021 study published in Science Advances by researchers at Yale University1 found that social media platforms amplify expressions of moral outrage over time.

This figure shows how the political extremity of a person’s online social network affects their likelihood of expressing outrage in tweets. The first graph (A) compares two groups: users discussing the Brett Kavanaugh nomination (blue) and those engaging with a more neutral “United” topic (orange). It reveals that Kavanaugh users are more likely to be part of ideologically extreme networks, while United users tend to have more moderate networks.

The second graph (B) shows that as a person’s network becomes more politically extreme, their likelihood of expressing outrage increases. This trend is stronger for Kavanaugh users, meaning people in highly polarized discussions are more likely to tweet with outrage, reinforcing the idea that echo chambers fuel emotional reactions.

This amplification occurs because users learn that such expressions are rewarded with increased "likes" and "shares" on platforms like Twitter and Facebook. The study demonstrated that social feedback, such as likes and shares, significantly predicts future moral outrage expressions, indicating that reinforcement learning shapes users' online behavior.

This phenomenon is further amplified by the online disinhibition effect, which suggests that anonymity and lack of immediate social consequences make people more aggressive online.2

Writing that very last part makes me remember Marina Abramović’s performance "Rhythm 0."

In the piece, Abramović placed herself completely at the mercy of the audience, allowing them to use various objects on her without any intervention.

Just as the online environment strips away responsibility and emboldens extreme actions, "Rhythm 0" demonstrated how the absence of accountability can lead individuals to push boundaries and, at times, inflict harm.

Social media also creates ideological echo chambers that reinforce existing beliefs.3 Algorithms naturally push users toward content they already agree with, deepening polarization. Exposure to opposing political viewpoints can even make users more entrenched in their original views, rather than opening them up to new perspectives. 4

In summary, the internet not only hosts arguments but actively cultivates and rewards them, often without changing users' minds.

b. for your own enjoyment

Social media platforms have become integral to modern identity formation, particularly in a context where traditional community ties are dissolving. Engaging in online debates often serves as a means to fulfill needs for identity and belonging, as individuals align themselves with specific groups or causes. This behavior is particularly evident when defending one's "in-group," whether that be a fandom, political ideology, or niche internet subculture.

This phenomenon aligns with Social Identity Theory (SIT), proposed by Tajfel and Turner (1979)5, which posits that individuals derive a sense of self-worth from their group affiliations. SIT explains why people defend their in-groups aggressively, especially in online environments where anonymity can amplify these behaviors.6

Online communities provide a space for individuals to express and reinforce their identities through shared values and beliefs, often leading to in-group favoritism and out-group negativity.

Online debates frequently function as ideological theater, where the primary goal is to perform for an audience that already agrees with you rather than to convince the opposing side.

Individuals engage in these debates to gain social approval from their in-group, often measured in likes, shares, and retweets. This behavior is consistent with broader research on how social media platforms facilitate group dynamics and reinforce existing beliefs7.

Online communities offer a unique space for identity exploration and formation. For instance, online fandom communities allow individuals to engage in self-expression and form meaningful connections with others who share similar passions8. The dynamic nature of these communities enables individuals to navigate complex processes of identity formation and belonging.

Additionally, social media platforms influence behavior by creating norms that individuals feel compelled to follow. This is evident in how users align their actions and opinions with those of their in-group, even if it means adopting behaviors or views that they might not hold offline.

Online communities can be particularly important for marginalized groups, offering spaces for identity exploration and acceptance that may not be available offline. This underscores the role of social media in facilitating diverse forms of identity expression and community building.

While online debates can lead to conflict, they also provide opportunities for deeper discussions and community bonding. The resolution of conflicts within online communities can strengthen group ties and reinforce collective identity.

c. for the sake of holding people accountable

The internet gives everyone a megaphone, which means bad takes don’t just die in private—they spread, multiply, and occasionally end up on a TED Talk stage.

Sometimes, engaging in arguments isn’t just about entertainment; it’s about pushing back against misinformation, lazy thinking, and whatever new pseudo-scientific nonsense is trending that week. Sure, you won’t always change minds, but at the very least, you can make sure bad ideas don’t go unchallenged.

So essentially, online arguments persist because of a cocktail of psychological vulnerabilities, technological manipulation, and a desperate craving for validation. It’s the digital equivalent of people who shout at pigeons in the park, convinced they're making a difference—except the pigeons now have Wi-Fi.

2. the online arguer matrix

The Online Arguer Matrix is something I made what happens when you take every excruciating internet debate you've ever seen and sort its participants into four neat little boxes.

It’s a simple two-axis system: one measures how well someone argues—ranging from clumsy, logic-mangling messes to razor-sharp rhetorical mastery. The other measures why they argue—whether they genuinely seek the truth or just want to stir chaos.

This leaves us with four types of arguers:

1. The Philosopher – Actually knows what they’re doing and argues in good faith. A rare species.

2. The Amateur – Well-meaning but incompetent, like a toddler wielding a plastic sword.

3. The Troll – The conversational equivalent of a raccoon knocking over trash cans.

4. The Manipulator – Just as skilled as the Philosopher, but with a villainous mustache.

Each of these characters plays a role in the theater of online discourse. And if you’re wondering which one you are—well, buckle up. It’s time to take a closer look.

a. the Philosopher—good faith, good technique

The Philosopher seems like a normal internet arguer, but they’re actually an anomaly—a rare species in the wild, someone who debates in good faith. By engaging in discussions with actual curiosity, they seem like just another opinionated person—but they never seem to get caught in the usual online shouting matches.

Philosophers have clever brains, and good faith is the brain’s most clever trick. The brain knows that the Average Internet Debater, who can be reactionary, can be appeased if it just slings enough arguments back and forth. So the Philosopher’s brain creates a battle that looks like a normal argument but isn’t—because instead of fighting to win, the Philosopher fights to understand.

It relies on one major delusion of the Average Internet Debater—that arguing = thinking.

So an Average Debater will spend the whole day composing Twitter replies, making hot takes, debating in comment sections, crafting devastating clapbacks, and if they’re judging themselves by time spent “engaging with ideas,” they’re a smashing success.

But at the end of the day, the satisfaction they feel has a hint of emptiness to it, and the thrill of arguing never quite turns into the thrill of learning. They may have convinced themselves that they’re refining their thoughts, but in their subconscious, they know they’re mostly reinforcing the ones they already had. Their feelings of intellectual rigor come along with an undercurrent of stagnation.

In reality, they’re living in a grand, overarching illusion, brilliantly crafted by their own confirmation bias. Rather than try to seek truth, the Average Debater’s brain tricks them into fighting the wrong battle—defending their position rather than examining it. And they win that battle, again and again, which leads them to believe they’re doing a good job.

the philosopher’s secret weapon

Instead of treating every argument like a war zone, the Philosopher does something radical: they try to understand what’s actually being said before responding.

They ask real, useful questions—not to trap you, but to make sure they get your point.

They don’t assume you’re an idiot (unless you are, in which case, they’ll still be polite about it).

They’re here to refine their own thinking, not just dismantle yours.

This means arguing with a Philosopher is weirdly… pleasant? Even when they disagree, they’re not hostile. They just lay out their reasoning, listen to yours, and—brace yourself—sometimes even change their mind.

b. the Amateur—good faith & bad technique

The Amateur might seem like a decent conversation partner—like that friendly guy at a party who always smiles and nods. But really, they're a walking disaster—a well-meaning debater with the technique of a soggy piece of toast. They engage with genuine curiosity, making it look like they’re on the right track, yet actual progress in debates always slips through their fingers.

Amateurs have eager minds, and eagerness is the mind’s sneakiest con artist. Their brain convinces them that since the Average Internet Debater thrives on bad faith and flimsy arguments, sincerity alone is the perfect antidote. So, they meander through discussions, hoping something useful will emerge by accident.

This all boils down to one critical delusion: the Amateur believes being open-minded is the same as being persuasive.

So, what do they do? They absorb every viewpoint, toss out unstructured counterpoints, agree too quickly, backtrack, over-explain, and apologize for things that don’t need apologizing. If success were measured by niceness, they’d be champions. But every debate leaves them with a nagging emptiness—like eating a full meal yet still feeling hungry. They might think they’re being reasonable, but deep down, they know they’re getting steamrolled.

Instead of sharpening their arguments, they convince themselves that engaging in good faith is enough. And so they keep at it, mistaking motion for progress.

the Amateur’s fatal flaws

Rather than treating arguments as battles, the Amateur aims to keep things civil. It backfires.

They assume good faith—even when they shouldn’t. They ask broad, unfocused questions that barely challenge anything. They hedge every statement until their point is barely a whisper. They’re here to learn, but they never land anywhere.

And that’s why debating an Amateur is maddening. Even when they make a solid point, it’s so soft and tentative that it feels weightless. They gesture at ideas, let them hang, and then retreat into uncertainty the moment they’re challenged.

At the core, the Amateur’s biggest flaw isn’t just being too nice—it’s mistaking endless dialogue for actual persuasion.

c. the Troll—bad faith & bad technique

What’s even worse than the Amateur? Someone who doesn’t even have good faith.

They’re a walking catastrophe—a bad-faith debater with zero technique and even less self-awareness. By launching themselves into every argument with maximum aggression, they seem engaged. They are engaged. But the only thing they ever accomplish is making everyone involved regret logging on.

Trolls have chaotic brains, and chaos is the brain’s most destructive trick. The brain knows that the Average Internet User—who just wants a normal discussion—can be dragged into a pointless brawl if provoked correctly.

So the Troll’s brain sets up a battle that swings back and forth between misdirection and nonsense. And the beauty of this move? The Troll thrives in pure, meaningless conflict. It’s built on one central delusion—that winning = making the other person mad.

So a Troll will spend the whole day posting inflammatory nonsense, dodging direct questions, shifting goalposts, spamming memes, and misrepresenting arguments. And if they’re judging themselves by how many people they’ve pissed off, they’re a smashing success.

But when the screen goes dark, the satisfaction feels hollow. The “wins” don’t feel like wins. They may have convinced themselves they’re dominating the debate, but somewhere in their subconscious, they know they’re mostly just making noise. Their feelings of superiority come packaged with an undercurrent of irrelevance.

In reality, they’re living inside a grand, overarching failure, brilliantly crafted by their own need for attention. Rather than construct a coherent argument, the Troll’s brain tricks them into thinking that causing chaos is a form of success. And because the internet has an infinite supply of new victims, the cycle never ends. They do it again. And again. And again. Until they start believing they’re some kind of rhetorical genius.

the Troll’s playbook

The Troll doesn’t treat debate as a chance to engage. They do something much dumber: they treat it like a game where the only goal is to annoy people.

They don’t try to win arguments—they try to exhaust their opponent.

They derail discussions with the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

They make statements they know aren’t true, just to see who reacts.

They are never, ever arguing in good faith.

This means arguing with a Troll is pointless. Even when you demolish their argument, they’ll just move on to another bad one, pretending the first never happened. They’ll never admit they’re wrong. They’ll never learn anything. They’re just here to waste your time.

d. the Manipulator—bad faith & good technique

The last and absolute worst: The Manipulator.

The Manipulator doesn’t argue to find the truth. They argue to win. And they’re good at it. Really good.

Manipulators have razor-sharp minds, and sharpness is the mind’s most dangerous trick. The mind knows that the Average Internet User—who just wants an honest discussion—can be overwhelmed by someone who debates with the precision of a trial lawyer. So the Manipulator’s mind sets up a battle that swings between surface-level reasonableness and deep-seated deception. And the beauty of this move? The Manipulator doesn’t care if they’re right—as long as they seem right.

But winning isn’t enough. The Manipulator doesn’t just want to beat you—they want you to feel beaten. They want you flustered, exhausted, questioning your own sanity. If you walk away from the conversation frustrated, drained, and doubting yourself, they consider that an even bigger victory.

So a Manipulator will spend the whole day constructing airtight arguments with a hidden agenda, using rhetorical sleight of hand, cherry-picking evidence, playing semantics games, and subtly shifting the goalposts. And if they’re judging themselves by how many people they’ve outmaneuvered and annoyed, they’re a smashing success.

But when the debate ends, the victory feels… off. Hollow. Their “wins” don’t feel like wins. They may have convinced themselves they’re an intellectual powerhouse, but somewhere in their subconscious, they know they’re mostly just playing a game.

the Manipulator’s playbook

A normal person enters a debate expecting a mutual search for understanding. The Manipulator does something else entirely: they turn it into a courtroom where they’re both the lawyer and the judge.

• They never argue in good faith—but they make sure you do.

• They don’t debate to learn—they debate to trap you.

• They use real, well-structured logic—but only the parts that help their case.

• They’ll misrepresent your argument—but so subtly you won’t notice until it’s too late.

• They’ll force you to defend a position you never took—just so they can crush it.

• They don’t just want to win—they want to frustrate you until you break.

Which makes arguing with a Manipulator disorienting. Even when they’re wrong, they sound right. Even when you catch them twisting your words, they never admit it. They’ll use every intellectual trick in the book—misdirection, false equivalence, selective quoting, feigned ignorance—until you’re not even sure what you were arguing about in the first place.

3. dirty tactics

Alright, so we’ve covered how to handle the different personalities in a debate. The Philosopher? Just hit them with facts and logic. The Amateur? Guide them in the right direction. The Troll? Ignore and move on.

But then there’s the Manipulator. How do you correctly deal with them? And that’s where things get tricky.

So let’s talk about them.

According to two-time world debate champion Bo Seo, he resolved to list the common tactics that are used by bad faith arguers. The four common personas he came up with were:

• the dodger

• the twister

• the wrangler

• the liar

a. the dodger

You say, “We need to do something about wealth inequality—it’s getting out of control.”

The dodger, instead of engaging with your point, does what they do best: sidestep the actual argument.

"Oh, so you think people shouldn’t be rewarded for hard work? Should we just hand out free money to everyone?"

See what happened? You were talking about wealth inequality. Now, suddenly, you’re defending whether any form of financial success is legitimate. Your original point is gone, buried under a new debate you never signed up for.

how to deal with it:

Don’t take the bait. Just calmly bring it back: “That’s not what I said. I’m talking about wealth inequality.” and highlight that they are trying to change what the disagreement is about

If you let them, the dodger will drag you through a maze of semi-related but completely off-track arguments until you don’t even remember what you were originally trying to say. Stay firm, or you’ll be debating capitalism vs. socialism before you even get to make your actual point.

b. the twister

You bring up wealth inequality. Instead of engaging, they dodge.

"Oh, so you think success shouldn’t be rewarded? Should we just start giving out free money?"

You were discussing inequality, but now you’re stuck justifying whether financial achievement is legitimate. Your original argument? Pushed aside in favor of a debate you never asked or was ready for.

how to deal with it:

Don’t follow their detour. Steer it back.

"That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about wealth inequality—let’s stick to that."

Point out their deflection. If you don’t, they’ll keep shifting the conversation until you’re arguing about something completely different. Keep your ground, or you’ll find yourself debating economic systems instead of the issue you actually raised.

c. the wrangler

No matter what you say, the wrangler finds a flaw. They poke holes, tear down ideas, and point out every possible downside—but offer nothing in return.

You propose a solution. They smirk. "That won’t work."

You suggest an approach. They shake their head. "That’s unrealistic."

Great. Now you’re stuck defending every possible imperfection while they sit comfortably on the sidelines, never committing to an idea of their own.

how to deal with it:

Flip the script.

"Alright, so what’s your solution?"

Make them take a stand for something. If they have a real position, they’ll have to defend it. If they don’t, they’ll fumble. Either way, you’ve broken the cycle—and suddenly, they’re the one under the spotlight.

d. the liar

A good liar doesn’t just drop one falsehood—they flood the zone. It’s not one misstatement, it’s an avalanche. Before you can debunk the first, three more roll in. Suddenly, you’re drowning in half-truths, distortions, and outright fabrications.

how to deal with it:

Don’t take the bait. You can’t fight a flood by chasing every drop of water. Instead, pick your spots.

Find one or two key lies—the ones that best expose their game. Then do a simple swap: take their falsehood, plug in the actual truth, and show how the whole argument crumbles.

Once you’ve replaced fiction with fact, you’re not just proving them wrong—you’re revealing the entire strategy for what it is. And when the audience sees the pattern, the liar loses their power.

the importance of engaging bad-faith actors

One of the most valuable things that knowledge and mastery of this kind of defense against bad-faith actors give us is the ability to challenge the bullies in our lives.

Some of that is a necessity—bullies exist, and they often bring the fight to us. But beyond self-defense, it’s crucial to engage with bad-faith actors early and, in many cases, often. The more they go unchallenged, the more their influence grows.

Even when we feel powerless in the face of a bully or a manipulative debater, we need the right tools to respond. More importantly, we need strategies to reset the conversation—to reclaim control and shape discussions in ways that promote truth, clarity, and fairness.

4. some last things before the real battle

If you’re stepping into an online debate, you need to be prepared—not just to argue, but to argue well. Most people don’t. They wade in with half-baked opinions, cherry-picked stats, and the emotional resilience of wet tissue paper.

You don’t want to be one of them. So, take out your notebook, before you start typing, here’s what you actually need to have in place.

a. strong sources

First, you need an arsenal of strong sources. If you don’t have receipts, you don’t have an argument. The internet runs on vibes more than facts, and if you want to cut through the noise, you need solid references.

The best sources are peer-reviewed journals, government reports, and reputable news organizations—basically, anything that went through a rigorous fact-checking process before publication. The problem? Most people won’t read them, and some aren’t even accessible without a paywall.

A good middle ground is well-sourced Wikipedia pages, research-based explainers from credible institutions, and expert interviews. What you don’t want to rely on are random blogs (this one for example), Threads without citations, or YouTube rants filmed in a car.

The realest thing you can do is to anticipate counterarguments. If you already know the weak spots in your case, you can fortify them before anyone else even gets a chance to poke holes.

b. emotional control

Next, you need emotional control and stamina. The longer an argument drags on, the less it becomes about truth and more about endurance.

I realized this when I watched someone I have the honour to disagree with spend three days straight locked in the same debate—without adding anything of actual value. Just a whirlwind of fallacies, baseless assumptions, and sweeping generalizations.

At some point, you have to accept that some people aren’t worth the engagement. They're not arguing to understand; they’re just running in circles, and you’re the one getting dizzy.

You have to recognize when a debate is actually worth engaging in and when it’s just a time-sink. If someone keeps twisting your words, moving the goalposts, or refusing to acknowledge basic facts, they’re not debating in good faith—you’re just wasting energy.

It’s also crucial to avoid ego traps. If you find yourself arguing just to “win” rather than to actually make a point, you’ve already lost. The best debaters stay calm while their opponents spiral, which makes them look even more credible.

And most importantly, don’t let anger do the typing. Some of the worst arguments happen when emotion takes over, and you end up saying something impulsive that you regret later. If you feel yourself getting too heated, step away. The internet isn’t going anywhere.

c. block and disengage

Finally, you need to know when to block and when to ignore. Blocking isn’t cowardice—it’s strategy. Think of it as clearing the battlefield of distractions. If someone is trolling, engaging in personal attacks, or deliberately misrepresenting your points, blocking them isn’t a weakness—it’s efficiency.

There’s no rule saying you have to waste time on bad-faith actors. However, there are also moments where engaging is worthwhile. If the other person is genuinely open to discussion (even if they disagree), or if you’re in a public thread where bystanders might benefit from seeing the debate play out, it can be worth staying in the conversation. Sometimes, even a losing argument can sharpen your thinking for the next battle.

A strong debater doesn’t just fight for the sake of fighting—they know when to strike, when to hold back, and when to walk away. If you prepare well, argue with purpose, and manage your energy, you won’t just survive the battlefield of online discourse—you’ll own it.

conclusion

At the end of the day, “winning” an online argument is a bit like winning a staring contest with a goldfish — sure, you've technically triumphed, but no one really cares, least of all the goldfish. The fleeting satisfaction of proving someone wrong on the internet is like the thrill of snagging the last slice of pizza at a party — briefly glorious, yet ultimately hollow because it's still just pizza.

You might screenshot your victory, and share it with friends who'll give you a digital pat on the back, but deep down, you know the world has not been fundamentally improved by your prowess in virtual combat.

Perhaps the trick is balancing the urge to verbally annihilate someone with the awareness that no one actually reads 20-tweet threads anymore.

Maybe it’s less about “winning” and more about figuring out why we’re all so desperate to be right in the first place — and realizing that, sometimes, it’s okay to just let the goldfish win.

footnote

When my girlfriend visited me for the first time, we stayed in my room. It was all very romantic, except that we immediately discovered we were at war over the air conditioning. The coldest temperature she could tolerate still felt lukewarm.

But this isn’t just our problem—it’s a universal struggle.

We often assume that the world is for everyone. Supposedly. Roads, buildings, and everyday objects are designed for "people." And since women, according to the latest scientific consensus, are indeed people, one might assume that the world is built for them just as much as it is for men.

Ha. Cute.

See, research has revealed that a shocking amount of modern design was created with only half the population in mind. Take a wild guess which half. Go on, I’ll wait.

From office air conditioning that assumes women are just smaller, shiverier men, to crash-test dummies modeled after the average bloke, women have been speedrunning life on hard mode simply because nobody thought to ask, hey, does this work for everyone?

Why does this matter? Because these little oversights have consequences. Some are annoying—like trying to reach a shelf calibrated to male height norms (which, fine, sounds like every romantic scene in every high school movie ever).

But then there are the slightly more pressing issues. Like being in a car crash that wasn’t tested for your body type. Or bleeding out because your stab-proof vest was designed for someone with, shall we say, fewer curves.

And if you think this is some ancient relic of the past—oh no, it’s still very much a thing. Right now. Today.

TABLE OF CONTENTS  
1. the reference man
2. from a minor office inconvenience
3. to dying from work (literally)
4. and everyday gadgets designed for typical (right-handed) men
5. driving to horrible accidents

1. the reference man

Before diving into the topic, let’s take a look at a really important term in the topic: the reference man.

Imagine a man between 20 and 30 years old, weighing around 70 kilograms, standing about 170 centimeters tall. He lives in a climate where the average temperature ranges from 10°C to 20°C. He’s Caucasian and follows the lifestyle and habits common in Western Europe or North America.

In science, engineering, and medicine, this man is known as the Reference Man. He serves as the standard model researchers and designers have used for decades to develop many aspects of the modern world.

When creating products, systems, or safety standards, many industries used this single male figure as the "average" human. As a result, women, children, and people of different body types were often overlooked in the design process.

This is one of the reasons women, in particular, may feel that certain everyday items or environments aren’t quite suited to them. Office chairs may feel too large, indoor temperatures might feel too cold, and using smartphones with one hand can feel awkward. These small inconveniences all stem from the fact that much of the world was built around the measurements, needs, and physiology of the Reference Man.

This influence goes beyond furniture and technology—it also affects medical research, safety equipment, transportation, and even public spaces. In many cases, products and policies were developed with this one male profile in mind, leaving others to adapt as best they could.

The Reference Man’s impact can be seen almost everywhere. But you are so used to things being this way you might not even notice. Understanding this helps explain why so much of the world may feel slightly out of sync if you don’t fit his profile. And once you become aware of it, you start seeing it all around you.

For now, it’s enough to know: the modern world was built around a single standard—and many people have had to adjust to fit into it.

2. from a minor office inconvenience

I conducted scientific research via Instagram, a professional communications network, by asking my female friends if they felt too cold at work.

94% said yes, only 6% said no. So it’s a somewhat shared experience among women.

But why is this a thing?

Apparently, women feel colder than men at work. Scientists have looked into this, probably after noticing all the blankets and passive-aggressive thermostat wars in offices.

Turns out, the standard office temperature was set in the 1960s using the metabolic resting rate of the average man, which is great if you’re an average man. Less great if you’re anyone else.

So, what is the metabolic resting rate? Well, glad you asked, it’s how many calories your body burns while you’re lying there like a sad potato, doing absolutely nothing.

Even then, your body still needs the energy to keep you alive—making your heartbeat, processing the dodgy takeaway you ate last night, inflating and deflating your lungs, and, most importantly for this discussion, warming you up like a biological radiator.

If your metabolic rate is low, your body is rubbish at heating itself. If it’s high, you’re a human space heater. Before the 1960s, scientists measured this using something called calorimetry, which is just a fancy way of checking how much energy someone burns while existing. Weirdly, they mostly tested men. Maybe they thought women didn’t need heat, or maybe they just forgot women existed.

Direct calorimetry involves placing subjects in a sealed chamber to measure heat output, while indirect calorimetry estimates energy expenditure by analyzing oxygen consumption and carbon dioxide production.

Another common tool was the Benedict-Roth spirometer, which calculated metabolic rates based on respiratory gas exchange. When the formula for office temperature was standardized in the 1960s, it relied on data from these methods—but only for men.

Since the average male metabolic rate is 20–35% higher than women’s, the result was an office climate optimized for male bodies, leaving women to freeze in the name of "scientific accuracy."

However a recent Dutch study found that the metabolic rate of young adult females performing light office work is significantly lower than the standard values for men doing the same activity.

Okay, so this chart is basically showing how warm or cold people actually feel compared to what scientists used to think they should feel. And, surprise, they got it kind of wrong.

On the left, there’s this big grey area — that’s what they call the thermoneutral zone. It’s just a fancy term for the temperature range where your body feels fine. Not too hot, not too cold. Scientists came up with this back in the 1960s, and the way they did it was by studying men sitting still, staring at the wall, and doing nothing at all, including the laundry.

The thing is, most people at work aren’t just sitting perfectly still. Even if you’re at a desk, you’re typing, clicking, maybe even leaning back dramatically when you read a passive aggressive email. All of that actually warms you up a bit — which means the old "comfortable" temperature range is actually cooler than it should be for people who are, you know, alive and moving.

Then in the middle of the chart, there’s this little bunch of dots. Those dots are from a study where they actually measured the comfort levels and skin temperatures of real women working in offices. And they’re way off from that original 1960s zone.

In other words, the temperatures in most offices are set to? They’re not even close to what feels comfortable for most women.

The reason why this happened is pretty simple — back in the 1960s, they mostly studied men. Because at the time, the idea of women working in offices was still seen as unusual.

In the rare case that they do, they mostly work as receptionists, secretaries, and typists. And when they do, they only account for a small proportion of the workforce. Not exactly what a typical 1960 researcher would have in mind as a typical office worker when researching these types of things.

So the scientists just assumed that if they figured out what was comfortable for men, that would cover everyone.

That’s why today, a lot of women feel freezing at work. It’s not because they’re being dramatic — it’s because the whole system for setting the thermostat was based on data that ignored them. And to make it even worse, the formula they use to guess how much heat women’s bodies produce is wrong too — by up to 35%. So the default office temperature ends up being around 5 degrees too cold for women.

And this isn’t just about comfort. When people are cold, they don’t focus as well, they make more mistakes, and they’re generally less productive.

Studies have shown that in colder environments, employees are more likely to make errors in their work, from typos to calculation mistakes, as their mental resources are split between their work and their physical discomfort.

Additionally, the body’s physical response to cold — tense muscles, reduced dexterity, and slower reaction times — can further contribute to decreased productivity, especially in tasks requiring fine motor skills or sustained attention.

So it’s not just a personal issue — it’s actually bad for business too. So capitalists, as much as they hate people and society, should care about this too.

And the thing is, this isn’t just about office temperatures. There’s a much bigger pattern where women — and anyone who isn’t the "average man" — kind of get left out of the data scientists and engineers use to design everything from safety equipment to medicine. And those little gaps add up over time, to the point where the world just doesn’t fit right if you’re not the person they originally had in mind.

So yeah — if you’re always cold at work, you’re not imagining it. The office wasn’t set up for you. And that’s just one example of how a tiny decision made decades ago can still affect people today.

3. to dying from work (literally)

You know how we always say work is supposed to support our lives? Like, we work to make money, so we can live the life we want. Except sometimes, work is just quietly shoving us one step closer to the grave.

Back in the early 1900s, around 4,400 people died at work every year in the UK — a horrifying figure, though perhaps less surprising when you consider what “work” often meant back then: dangerous industrial jobs, unsafe mines, and unregulated factories.

By 2016, the number of annual workplace fatalities had fallen to 135, thanks to sweeping improvements in health and safety regulations, technology, and oversight.1

So, overall, workplaces have gotten significantly safer. But those improvements haven’t been evenly distributed. Most occupational health and safety policies, standards, and risk assessments were developed with male-dominated industries in mind—construction sites, heavy manufacturing, and other sectors where physical injury is obvious and severe.

Meanwhile, injuries and illnesses in female-dominated sectors — such as healthcare, education, and service work — have received far less attention, even though these jobs come with their own significant risks, including musculoskeletal disorders, workplace violence, and exposure to infectious diseases.

In some countries, workplace injury rates among women have actually been rising, particularly in sectors like healthcare and social assistance, where chronic stress, repetitive strain injuries, and understaffing create hazardous working conditions.

The result? Women are way more likely to get things like repetitive strain injuries or deal with workplace violence2—stuff that doesn’t always make headlines but seriously impacts their health. Nurses, for example, do a ton of heavy lifting, but the guidelines for how to safely lift a patient? They’re mostly based on the average man’s strength.

So yeah, workplaces have gotten safer overall, but they’ve also accidentally become more dangerous for women. Which is kind of an achievement, in a twisted way.

And then there’s the stuff that’s harder to see. Like cancers.

Take breast cancer, for example. While the mortality rate (how likely you are to die from them has gone down), the incidence rates (how likely you are to get them) have skyrocketed over the last 50 years3, but we have almost no data on whether certain jobs make it worse.

Because, as many resources were poured into breast cancer research, scientists haven’t really studied women’s work environments, women’s bodies, or women’s exposure to workplace chemicals, and because we lack the knowledge on how or the legal requirement to do it, little is done to help women not having to cut out their breasts.

And even if they started studying it today, we wouldn’t have clear answers for decades—because cancers like this take years to show up. But they’re not starting those studies today. They’re still mostly assuming that whatever happens to men happens to women too. Like women are just men with smaller hands and higher voices.

The thing is, men's and women’s bodies don’t work the same way. From the inside to the outside. Different hormones, different immune systems, and even different skin thickness. Women’s skin is thinner, so chemicals absorb faster. Women also tend to have more body fat, which means toxic stuff doesn’t just pass through — it gets stored, like leftovers you forgot in the back of the fridge.

And yet, when we test chemicals for safety, they’re usually tested on men, in isolation. Meanwhile, in real life, women are breathing in hairspray, cleaning products, pollution, and that weird chemical smell in the office — all at once. And nobody’s really checked what that cocktail does to the body. Probably nothing good.

And then after their shift, a lot of these women go home and clean the house — exposing themselves to even more chemicals. No one’s really studied what happens when all those chemicals build up together in the same body. But if they don’t mix well in a test tube, I can’t imagine they mix well in a person.

Most workplace chemical research focuses on how stuff gets absorbed through the skin — which is fine if you’re planning to bathe in acetone. But the chemicals in salons? They float through the air. You breathe them in. And we just haven’t studied that much. Because why would we? We’ve been too busy studying how men’s bodies react to sitting in chairs.

Then there’s the safety gear—PPE, the stuff that’s supposed to protect you.

In theory, employers have to provide gear that fits. But in reality, that just means smaller versions of men’s gear, or the unisex gear if you want to be inclusive, but mostly tested on men. And as we discussed, women’s bodies aren’t just mini-men bodies — different shapes, different proportions. This means safety harnesses, stab vests, and even basic work gloves don’t fit properly.

This isn’t just annoying — it’s dangerous. In 1997, a female police officer was stabbed and killed because her body armor didn’t fit, so she had to take it off to do her job4. Two years later, another female officer had breast reduction surgery because her body armour was crushing her. After her story came out, 700 female officers reported the exact same problem.

And somehow we still haven’t sorted it out. A new armor is designed specifically for women now, we got it in 2023, but whether their police forces buy it or not is still optional.

Women officers still get bruised from their equipment, develop back problems, and have vests that don’t cover everything they’re supposed to. Some designs don’t even account for breasts — which feels like a pretty important detail to miss.

So, to sum up: workplaces are still mostly designed around men. The tools, the gear, the chemicals, even the air — all based on this imaginary “Reference Man” who’s treated like the default human. Meanwhile, women are left to just... deal with it. On the plus side, at least men can comfortably hold a brick.

4. and everyday gadgets designed for typical (right-handed) men

I’m left-handed. I’ve spent my whole life wrestling with tools made for right-handed people. Everything—from scissors to the fruit-skin-peeling thing—feels like a daily reminder that the world wasn’t built with people like me in mind. It’s like being a penguin trying to survive in the desert—possible, but unnecessarily difficult.

Most things designed for one-handed use default to the right hand — which, sure, makes sense from a business perspective. But for left-handed people, it’s functional but awkward.

That’s what it’s like for women living in a world designed by and for men. Unless something is explicitly made for women, the default setting is "male." From office temperatures to safety gear to healthcare — it’s all calibrated for men first. And sure, from a business perspective, that made sense too. But for women, it’s frustrating. It’s exhausting. It’s the desert all over again.

Now imagine being a left-handed woman. That’s life in nightmare mode.

Take smartphones. The average size is now 5.5 inches, which sounds small, but in a woman’s hand, it’s the size of a medieval shield. Men, with our statistically larger hands, can comfortably text, scroll, and swipe right without risking a wrist injury. Women, meanwhile, have to perform elaborate finger gymnastics just to leave the men’s text on read.

Now if I throw in the stats where it’s stated that women are actually more likely to own an iPhone than men, wouldn’t that be ironic?

Apple, a company that makes its products white, sleek, and expensive—arguably the most feminine traits a product can have—somehow still forgets women exist when designing them.

And it’s not just phones. Voice-recognition software—the thing that’s supposed to make life easier—actually makes it harder for women by refusing to understand them.

A study found that Google’s speech recognition software was 70% better at recognizing men’s voices. This is great for men, but not so much for the woman screaming at her car’s voice command to “CALL 911”.

Tech’s default setting is “man.” Apple’s first health-monitoring system could track your steps, your blood pressure, and even your molybdenum levels—because obviously, we all wake up in the morning desperate to know our molybdenum levels—but somehow forgot to include a period tracker, which is a bit like making a car and forgetting to add doors.

When Siri launched, she could help you find prostitutes and Viagra, but if you told her you’d need an abortion, it balatantly claimed that it was anti-abortion.

When confronted about it, Apple claim that it was not intentional and rather it was still in testing. When a testing process helps people find Viagra but can’t with abortion clinics, perhaps your testing process needs a testing process. But it’s wholesome that they still think this is a problem.

And it’s not just digital tech. Even fitness trackers underestimate steps taken during housework by up to 74%. This is interesting because if men were the ones doing most of the housework, I’m fairly certain we’d have an Olympic sport called Competitive Vacuuming by now.

So while the tech industry likes to think of itself as futuristic, cutting-edge, and innovative, it somehow still operates under the assumption that “man” is the default and “woman” is just some weird spinoff.

The good news is, that smartphone screens probably won’t be getting any bigger because they’ve finally hit men’s hand size limit.

5. driving to horrible accidents

My mother has been urging me to learn how to drive for a while now. I do know how to drive but I haven’t take the qualification tests yet. In my family, my mother is the only person to not know how to drive.

And it’s not that rare in other families either. In many households, especially in more traditional or conservative cultures, driving is often seen as the man’s responsibility — a subtle extension of the belief that men should take charge in practical or protective roles.

This dynamic has even made its way into pop culture through the term “passenger princess”, which refers to the person — often a woman — who sits in the passenger seat while someone else (typically her partner) drives.

It’s a playful label, but it also reflects a deeper, normalized assumption about who belongs behind the wheel and who does not.

But it’s not actually that unreasonable to suggest that women maybe should not drive. Stay with me.

Women are 73% more likely to be seriously injured in a car crash than men.5 That means if you crash and you’re a woman, you’ve got nearly half the chance of coming out of it looking like an abstract painting. Not because women are worse drivers—though that’s a popular myth—but because cars are designed for men.

When it comes to crashes, there is one thing that are designed specifically to make people die less in accidents. Crash tests.

Crash tests are basically like when you drop your phone on purpose to see if the case actually works—except instead of a phone, it’s a car, and instead of a case, it’s all the safety bits like seat belts and airbags.

Scientists smash cars into walls with crash-test dummies inside, a human-shaped piñata full of sensors, to see how much they’d get jumbled up in a real crash. The idea is to mimic how a human would absorb the impact of a crash sitting in a designed car, and based on what they learned they can make cars safer so people don’t get turned into spaghetti in an accident.

So you can see how crash test dummies have to be almost perfect human replicas because even small differences can mess up the results. If a dummy’s weight, height, or even the squishiness of its fake flesh isn’t right, it won’t react like a real person in a crash.

For example, if the dummy’s neck is too stiff, it might not show the risk of whiplash properly. If its chest doesn’t compress like a human’s, it could underestimate how deadly a crash is. Since car safety is based on these tests, any flaws in the dummy mean real people could end up in more danger than expected.

For decades, crash test dummies were modeled exclusively after the Reference Man. This means that seat belts, airbags, and headrests were all optimized for that body type. The logic behind this was simple—back in the 1960s, when these tests first started, the assumption was that the typical driver was a man. Women, it seems, were just supposed to sit quietly in the passenger seat, hoping for the best.

It wasn’t until 2011 that the U.S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) finally introduced a female crash dummy—but even that wasn’t much of a win.

First, instead of designing a new model to reflect the actual anatomy of a woman, they just shrunk the male dummy down to 4’11” and 49 kg (108 lbs).

This "female" dummy lacks key differences like variations in muscle distribution, fat composition, spinal alignment, and pelvis shape—all of which affect how a body absorbs impact in a crash. And how your body absorbs impact in a crash determined how fucked you are.

Secondly, they’re only used in 5% of tests, which means that the chances of you woman picking up a car designed for women to not die inside is just a little bit higher than pulling a five-star banner in Genshin Impact.

The audacity.

“Oh Duy, I’m sure that it doesn’t matter that much? If it works for men maybe it works for women too?”

I heard you asked. No.

Because of this oversight, women are at higher risk for serious injuries. According to a 2019 study from the University of Virginia, women are 73% more likely to be seriously injured in frontal crashes compared to men, even when wearing seat belts.

Another study by the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety (IIHS) found that women are 17% more likely to die in a car accident than men in similar crashes.

One major reason is that women tend to sit closer to the steering wheel because of their shorter legs.

This puts them at a higher risk of chest and abdominal injuries from airbags and steering column impact. In car safety testing, this is called being an “out of position” driver, as if women are just sitting incorrectly on purpose instead of adapting to how cars are designed.

Whiplash is another big issue. Women are three times more likely to suffer from whiplash in rear-end collisions compared to men, largely due to differences in neck strength and posture. Yet car seats are still designed for male bodies, which means they often fail to properly support a woman’s neck in a crash.

If you're pregnant, the situation is even worse. Car crashes are one of the leading causes of fetal death due to maternal trauma, yet safety tests don’t account for this. A pregnant crash dummy was developed in 1996, but it’s not required for safety tests, so manufacturers rarely use it.

Meanwhile, seat belts and airbags haven’t been adapted for pregnancy, meaning a hard stop could directly injure the fetus or cause placental abruption.

There is some hope. A Swedish scientist, Astrid Linder, has developed the first true female crash dummy, which takes into account differences in body shape, muscle mass, and biomechanics. She’s pushing for the European Union to mandate its use in crash tests, something that should have happened decades ago.

But as of now, most crash safety tests are still based on an imaginary six-foot-tall, 170-pound man with a rock-solid neck and a perfectly aligned spine. Women? They’re just supposed to fit themselves into that mold and hope for the best.

But at least the male dummies are doing just fine.

conclusion

If aliens landed tomorrow and took a look around, they’d probably assume Earth was designed for one species: The Reference Man. Everything—the cars, the offices, the safety measures—fits him perfectly. Meanwhile, women are out here trying to navigate a world that treats them like unusually small, inconveniently shaped men.

The truth is, this isn’t some grand conspiracy—it’s just bad design. The world wasn’t built for women because, for most of history, the people designing it were men. And when you’re creating something for yourself, you don’t stop to ask, “Hey, would this also work for someone with an entirely different body, experience, and set of daily challenges?”

So we ended up with a world where women constantly have to adjust, adapt, and make do—whether it’s wearing safety gear that doesn’t fit, taking medicine that was never tested on them, or trying to reach the top shelf without scaling the countertops like a raccoon.

Yet, instead of asking why the system was built this way — why some risks are taken seriously while others are ignored — the conversation so often collapses into a pointless tug-of-war between men and women. We fight over who has it worse, who’s more overlooked, and who’s to blame — all while the real issue, the system itself, stays untouched and intact.

And that’s what frustrates me most about this whole conversation.

Because this was never about men versus women. It’s about a world designed with only some bodies, some jobs, and some risks in mind — while everyone else is left to squeeze themselves into spaces that were never meant to hold them.

The real fight isn’t between us — it’s against the systems that pretend some forms of work, some kinds of pain, some lives matter more than others.

And it can be changed. It’s not the law of physics; it’s just a series of decisions made by people. If we start making better decisions, maybe the world will finally be designed for everyone.

And then women won’t have to worry about freezing in offices, getting misdiagnosed, or dying in car crashes they were never considered in.

Now that would be a time to be alive.

a lot of housekeeping

Hi, some housekeeping, a number of readers specifically asked me to publish things on weekdays because they often turn off notifications for weekends and are flooded with work on Mondays, after a quick survey, I decided to try to republish things on Thursdays again. What do you think about this? Please let me know.

Ironically enough, this is not easy to write because I want to include research papers pointing to the problem, research that I think should have been there but apparently was not, which is exactly the problem that I’m discussing. Suffering from success.

Another thing: my former blogging teachers and have opened a video class about how to start your blogging journey in the most sustainable way. It helped me a lot when I started so I think if you’re interested in blogging or writing in general it would help you too.

Here’s the link. If you use the code “thefrogsociety” there would be around 100k dong off for you, and I get a small cut too.

Let me know if you use it and we can discuss things that you learned in the course.

footnote

Did you wonder why you were so fucking alone last Valentine? And still are?

Did you find dating, more specifically online dating, is absolutely horrifying, and you would rather eat a toe?

Did/do you by chance have a penis?

Luckily I’m here to have an explanation for you.

It’s almost cliché to say that men are more visual than women.

That’s why they like big screens, fast cars, and those weird deep-sea fish with lights on their heads. It’s also why they’re supposedly the harsher judges of attractiveness, quick to decide whether a woman is a 10 or a nah within seconds.

Meanwhile, women are thought to be more interested in personality, humor, and a man’s ability to provide—whether that means financial security or just the patience to assemble an IKEA bookshelf without breaking down in tears.

But is that really the case? Here’s what I found interesting:

When asked to rate the attractiveness of an average man or woman, men are actually far more generous than women.

That’s right—despite all the talk about men being superficial, they’re significantly more likely to shrug and say, “Yeah, bang, next question” while women stare at a perfectly normal-looking guy like forensic scientists analyzing a crime scene.

But why does this even matter? Because dating has become a high-stakes game, where people decide your entire worth in the time it takes to dismiss a YouTube ad.

Worse, we’re living in a world where no one actually looks like themselves anymore. Social media has cranked up the beauty scale so high that normal human faces now seem defective, like a factory error. If women are already strict graders, this is only making things worse—raising the question: At what point does a man just give up and list himself on eBay instead?

So what happens next? Are men simply doomed to a life of being slightly below expectations? Should they invest in professional lighting? Or are we all just one bad filter away from realizing none of this even matters?

In the next bit, we’ll investigate whether dating is actually broken—or if we’ve just made it so complicated that no one wants to play anymore.

TABLE OF CONTENTS  
1. the unbalanced scale of hot
2. the macro online date-onomics 
3. the widespread lonely epidemic

1. the unbalanced scale of hot

I think it should be fairly safe to say that, in the grand scheme of online dating, the likeliness to get a date is closely correlated with the likeliness that people find you attractive.

Now, “attractive” can mean a lot of things. “Attractive” means “being able to attract", and a lot of things in a homo sapien can attract potential mates, like looks, humour, kindness, looks, humility, generosity, looks, etc.

But sadly, judging by how the most popular dating apps are designed, “attractive” often means “hot”. “Hot” in terms of looks, not temperature.

How does “hot” determine your chance of getting a date, and actually, how hot you are?

I came across this really interesting blog by OkCupid, one of the most popular websites that you have never heard of, analysing how different women and men judge the opposite gender’s hotness and, correlationally, how likely they are to text. I would try to re-explain the information.1

We’ll start with a simple line chart. The information I’ll present in this post is not normalized because, as we’ll see, it’s interesting how men and women evaluate looks differently.

Right, so here’s a chart of how men have rated women, on a very scientific scale from 0 to 5. And surprisingly, men have been quite fair about it.

The curve is all nice and symmetrical, a proper classic bell shape, which means men reckon women are just as likely to look like a Greek goddess as they are to resemble a melted candle. Most, though, sit somewhere in the middle, in what Gen Zs would call “mid”, short for “middle” if you don’t know.

Now, considering we’re constantly told that Hollywood, Instagram, and Photoshop have turned men into drooling idiots who expect every woman to look like they’ve just stepped out of a perfume advert, this chart is actually quite refreshing. It turns out that men are, on the whole, pretty realistic. Who knew? I’m a man and I’m surprised.

But before we go congratulating ourselves too much, let’s add another layer to this chart: the messages they actually send. And that’s when things start to get interesting.

When it comes down to actually choosing targets, men choose the modelesque. Site-wide, two-thirds of male messages go to the best-looking third of women. So basically, guys are fighting each other 2-for-1 for the absolute best-rated females, while plenty of potentially charming, even cute, girls go unwritten. Statistically speaking, men don’t settle. They go big or go home jerking off by themselves.

The female equivalent of the above chart shows a different bias:

Right, so according to this chart, women apparently think that the majority of men look like they’ve been hit in the face with a wet sock. That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? I mean, statistically speaking, most people should be average-looking because that’s what “average” means. Right in the middle, where most people are.

But no—women have decided that “medium” is actually somewhere near the top, and most men are just below average. Ugly little gremlins, if you allow me.

Now, here’s where it gets weird: despite rating nearly all men as visually offensive to the eyes, women still go ahead and message them.

This raises an important question—are they just sending pity messages? Or are they thinking, “Well, he looks like a human thumb, but maybe he’s got a nice personality”? Either way, something’s not adding up.

So, before we get the answer to that, which of course would need a more scientific approach than doing a survey on a dating site, in the end, it turns out it’s not men who have unrealistic expectations—it’s women. Shocking, really. The whole thing seems a bit like a game where no one understands the rules, but the winners are the people who look like they belong in a perfume advert.

This graph also dramatically illustrates just how much more important a woman’s looks are than a guy’s.

Now let’s take a look at how senders’ and recipients’ attractiveness affect reply rates, not just the number of messages sent.

As you’d expect, more attractive people get more replies. And since they themselves get so many more messages than everyone else, they write back much less frequently. Here’s the graph for female senders, plotted in evenly-spaced “attractiveness groups.”

And here’s the one for male senders.

Now, here’s something odd: when really good-looking men message women who’ve been rated less attractive, their success rate drops like a bad soufflé.

The obvious explanation would be that these men are just incredibly handsome spammers, firing off messages like some sort of well-groomed spambots. But OkCupid’s controlled for that—because they are very serious scientists—and besides if that were true, why would the more attractive women be falling for it?

No, something else is going on here. Probably a self-confidence thing. Or maybe these women just assume it’s a trap. Like, “Why is this man, who looks like he belongs in Hollywood, talking to me? Is he part of a hidden camera show? Am I about to be scammed?”

Finally, let’s throw all these numbers onto a chart so we can see, in cold, hard data, just how much your face affects your chances of getting a reply. Unsurprisingly, the more attractive you are, the more likely you get a reply. And the more Y chromosomes you have, the less likely you are also to get a reply.

2. the macro online date-onomics

Meeting online is the most common way to meet your partner now. Online and dating are the two words that now go hand in hand together, toward a miserable yet lengthy marriage. You cannot talk about dating without talking about online.

Online dating is a big sorting hat, instead of putting you into Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, it puts you into "Gets Matches" or "Invisible."

Women, for example, swipe right on men over 1.8 meters tall, or if you want to be weird about it, around 6 feet, most of the time, even though in real life they’d probably settle for someone with a personality.

But that makes sense—when you’ve got two seconds to make a decision, you go with the visible and obvious: height, jawline, and whether or not he looks like he eats soup with his hands.

a. how online dating change dating dynamics

But it’s not just about swiping. Online dating has fundamentally changed how people approach relationships.

Back in the day, if you wanted to leave a relationship, you had to do it the hard way—by walking out the door and risking running into them on your way to school.

Now, you can ghost someone while sitting on the toilet, knowing there are literally millions of other people out there ready to replace them. If your partner so much as breathes weirdly, why stick around? Just keep swiping until you find someone who doesn’t sound like a punctured accordion.

Turns out, this has consequences. Couples who meet on apps are much more likely to break up in the first three years than those who meet through friends and family.2 Probably because friends and family actually know what you’re like and set you up with someone who won’t flee at the first sight of your “fun fact” about trains.

Also, there’s social pressure—if your mum introduced you, you can’t break up without her knowing. And no one wants that kind of conversation unless it’s super necessary.

The other thing dating apps have done is industrialize hypergamy, which is a fancy word for “dating up.” Women want the best men, no matter where they are on the social ladder. Men also want the best women, but crucially, they’re much more picky.

Biologically, this does not make any sense in the slightest—sperm is basically free, try to ask for any on social media and a bunch of creeps will fly into your inbox. But eggs, eggs are expensive. If sperm was money, it would be Monopoly cash. Eggs are the gold bars in the banks.

But dating apps don’t actually match people up into perfect couples.

The top 4.5% of men get most of the attention3, while the bottom 95.5% of men fight over the women who aren’t swiping right on the same top-tier guys. It’s like a game of musical chairs where most people don’t even get a chair, and the ones who do aren’t sitting down for long.

Women, optimally, will all try to date these top men, but crucially, they also want relationships, while the men mostly just want… not that. And why wouldn’t they? If you’re a man with infinite options, why pick just one when you can be the human equivalent of a sample platter?

So what’s left is this weird, lopsided system. Men swipe on everyone hoping for a match, women swipe only on a select few, and the dating apps sit back and watch, knowing that no one is ever really happy. But don’t worry—next time you get ghosted, just remember: it’s not you, it’s the algorithm.

Statistically, an average-looking bloke can expect about one “like” for every 115 women who see his profile. Which means that if he wants a date, his best bet is to just keep swiping until his thumb falls off.

This creates a weird paradox where both men and women end up lonelier. Women aren’t getting the commitment they want from the top men, and men aren’t getting anything at all.

A staggering 28% of men under 30 reported having no sex in the past year, which is double what it was a decade ago4. That’s not just an increase—that’s a medieval level of celibacy. In the past, these men would have been sent to monasteries or off to fight in wars. Now, they just stay in their bedrooms watching porn and arguing with strangers on Reddit. Progress.

b. the matching problem—supply and demand

Sex ratios shape dating culture in big ways.

Scientists have discovered that people change their romantic behavior depending on how many of them there are.5

If there aren’t many women around, women are very reserved, like Victorian heroines waiting for a marriage proposal. But when there are too many women, they decide casual relationships are fine after all.

On the other hand, if there are too many men, the men start pretending they’re deeply interested in commitment as if they’ve just discovered the concept of emotional stability. If there are too few of them, they start to act like the protagonist of a harem anime.

It’s almost as if dating works like a market—supply and demand.

Dating apps mess with this balance, creating an artificial sex ratio where there are way more "dateable" women than men. Men, having the standards of a Labrador retriever, swipe on nearly everyone. strategically. Women, on the other hand, filter ruthlessly.

Women tend to date across or up in terms of status, while men will date across or down. But here’s the issue: women are now 60% of college students. The median woman is starting to outearn the median man.

Meanwhile, a significant portion of men aged 25-54 are unemployed or have simply left the workforce altogether. More men aged 18-34 are living with their parents than with a romantic partner. Which means that even though lots of women want a relationship, there simply aren’t enough “successful” men to go around.

There are four possible solutions to this mess:

1. Women start dating down economically (unlikely, since most women would rather eat glass than date a man who calls himself an “entrepreneur” but has no income).

2. The median man magically starts outearning the median woman (but considering many men’s main hobbies are energy drinks and conspiracy theories, that seems improbable).

3. Generally normalised polyamory (so that the best men can date multiple women, and women can date multiple men).

4. [Most likely] Society just stops marrying altogether, and people turn to artificial wombs and AI girlfriends (so we all get a dystopian future and no sex). Not far fetch if we’re looking East and see Japan and Korea out there in the water drowning in low birth rates.

None of these options sound great. But history tells us that a society with too many single, frustrated men is a very bad idea. There’s even a theory for this: Bare Branches.

The idea is that if enough men are cut off from the family tree, they’ll eventually get angry enough that the government has to find something for them to do, like start a war. Throughout history, these surplus men were often sent off to fight, invade, or just generally cause havoc.

Monogamy used to be a social technology designed to keep this whole system from descending into chaos. Societies that practiced monogamy flourished because they solved the “extra men” problem. Everyone got a partner, more or less, and things were relatively stable. But that only worked when there were enough decent men to go around.

Of course, zooming out, even the idea of romantic love is pretty new. Historically, marriage had very little to do with love and everything to do with making sure your family didn’t lose their sheep farm.

Nietzsche (who, to be fair, was not known for his thriving love life) pointed out that romantic love had already started to ruin marriage by the late 1800s. Tocqueville observed that in America, they didn’t arrange marriages—but they did make sure their daughters picked wisely.

And even then, love wasn’t about butterflies and stolen glances—it was about picking someone who would be a good parent to your kids. Over time, that kind of partnership turned into something deeper, something more meaningful than just the desire to jump into bed with each other.

The real issue is that modern dating has swung so far in the opposite direction that it’s now mostly about optimizing for the shallowest traits possible. In the past, people didn’t choose their partners at all.

Now, we choose them based on their height, abs, and ability to take a mirror selfie. In trying to find “the best,” we may have lost sight of what actually makes relationships work.

Or maybe we’ve just collectively run out of good men.

3. the widespread lonely epidemic

I think I will never do the topic of dating justice if I don’t talk about actual economics related to dating. Because the problem of dating is not as minor as the problem of being slightly fed up with your mom's cooking.

When large numbers of men check out of the dating game, it doesn’t just mean more male loneliness epidemics, it does, but that’s beside the point—it means fewer marriages, fewer kids, and eventually, an aging population that is not at all suitable for working.

a. fewer marriages, fewer kids

Legally speaking, one can only marry one, unfortunately for the weeb who’s obsessed with the idea of a harem. But since one can only marry one, you can see the problem when everyone’s competing in the top 20% and pretending the remaining 80% don’t exist. 20% of men in the world are around 800 million men. These 800 million men will settle for another 800 million women. The rest of the world is just going to have to compromise, or die lonely, or both.

This phenomenon is part of the reason marriage rates are plummeting, and birth rates are following close behind.

It’s not just a trend—it’s a full-blown shift in how societies function. Countries like Japan and South Korea are already feeling the effects of this change, with record-low birth rates and an increasing number of people opting out of relationships altogether.

The consequences of this aren’t just personal—they're deeply structural. With fewer marriages come fewer kids, and when birth rates tank, a country starts walking toward demographic decline.

Fewer marriages mean fewer households pooling resources to buy homes, invest in their futures, and build generational wealth. Housing markets shift as demand fluctuates, and economic inequality widens.

The traditional path of "get married, buy a house, have kids, save for retirement" is becoming less of a default setting and more of a privilege reserved for a shrinking portion of the population.

b. an aging workforce

Sorry for looking at humans only in terms of their labour value and not who they are on the inside, but theoretically speaking, fewer babies today mean fewer workers tomorrow. And when a country’s workforce shrinks, the entire economy takes a hit.

Think about it—fewer young workers mean fewer taxpayers, fewer consumers, and an ever-growing population of retirees who rely on social services. Everything provided to the dependants does not grow on trees quite literally, they will have to come from someone else.

Countries like Germany, known for the high quality of their products, and China, known for the high quality of their knock-off German products, are scrambling to stop their populations from shrinking into oblivion.

Their strategies? A delightful mix of throwing money at families, pushing robots into factories, and politely suggesting that people just keep working until they drop.

Take China, for instance. For decades, the government enforced the one-child policy with an iron fist, only to realize—much too late—that if you stop people from having kids, you eventually run out of workers.

Worse, since Chinese culture is heavily biased towards men, if people get only one shot at having kids, you doctors better make sure my child has a penis when it comes out.

And since that, the male surplus problem has come become quite fucking disastrous, the whole countrywide.

Who would have thought? Since 2016, they’re frantically reversing course, rolling out incentives like tax breaks, housing subsidies, and even direct cash payments to encourage childbirth. But funnily enough, it turns out people don’t particularly want to have more kids when the cost of raising them is astronomical and work-life balance is a distant dream.

So, China is also leaning heavily into automation, building eerily efficient factories where robots do all the work. Meanwhile, there’s talk of raising the retirement age, because when the young won’t work, you can always just make the old keep going. Genius.

Germany, on the other hand, has taken a different approach. Instead of convincing Germans to have more babies—an effort about as successful as getting a cat to fetch—it has opted to import its future workforce. The country has been actively recruiting skilled workers from abroad and welcoming migrants to fill labor gaps, most notably during the 2015 refugee crisis.

On top of that, Germany’s government offers generous parental benefits, childcare support, and, crucially, paid time off—things that might actually make people consider having children. And like China, Germany is also investing in robots, because if humans don’t do the job, machines definitely will.

At the heart of it, both countries are facing the same crisis but responding in ways that highlight their cultural differences. China, with its strict control overpopulation policies, is relying on internal adjustments—automation, workforce restructuring, and incentives—while Germany, with its more open social model, is betting on immigration to keep things running.

In the end, though, both nations are just trying to answer the same existential question: if no one wants to have kids, who exactly is going to run the economy in 50 years?

d. incels

When you have a massive pool of men who feel left out of the dating economy, strange things start to happen. Throughout history, large groups of unmarried, disconnected men have been linked to political instability, extremism, and social unrest.

Evidently, back in late Qing Dynasty China, there weren’t enough women to go around, which—shockingly—turned out to be a problem. Thanks to a mix of female infanticide, rich blokes hoarding wives, and just some truly horrendous math, the country ended up with loads of unmarried men wandering about with nothing to do.

They were called "bare branches" (光棍, guānggùn), which sounds quite poetic until you realize it’s just a fancy way of saying "blokes with no chance of a date."

The big question isn’t whether the world will adapt—it always does—but how. And I can think of one of the most obvious and straightforward ways that people, men specifically, adapt to the modern dating scene: incels (involuntary celibate).

When large numbers of men find themselves locked out of the dating market, many start looking for explanations. In the age of the internet, that search often leads them to incel communities—online spaces where romantic frustration festers into resentment. At first, these forums serve as places to vent, but over time, self-pity hardens into anger.

The narrative shifts from "dating is hard" to "the system is rigged against us." Women are no longer individuals with preferences; they become shallow and hypergamous, always chasing the top 10% of men.

Society itself is blamed for “feminizing” men, making them less desirable and stripping them of the status they once had. Some take it even further, believing they are genetically doomed to be alone, convinced that no amount of self-improvement can change their fate.

This isn’t just harmless online frustration—it has real-world consequences. Some incels withdraw entirely from society, dropping out of work, social life, and even basic self-care. Others spiral deeper into conspiracy theories, feeding each other a worldview where women are the enemy.

In extreme cases, this resentment has turned into violence, with self-identified incels carrying out mass attacks as acts of revenge. What started as a dating imbalance has become a cultural and psychological crisis, breeding loneliness, radicalization, and, in some cases, real harm.

Put simply:

a society where a huge number of men feel disconnected from family life is not a stable society, regardless of whose fault that is.

where does this leave us?

Fixing this won’t be easy. Dating apps have no incentive to fix it (they make money off frustration), and people aren’t going to suddenly stop seeking the “best” partner available.

So, what’s the way out? It might require rethinking how relationships form in the first place—maybe shifting away from hyper-globalized dating apps back to more localized, community-driven ways of meeting people. Or maybe, just maybe, we’ll all just have to accept that the dating economy is just as broken as everything else.

Either way, if you’re stuck swiping with no luck—congratulations. You’re just another victim of capitalism.

conclusion

Online dating was supposed to democratize romance, offering limitless possibilities at our fingertips. Instead, it has formalized attraction into an algorithmic economy—one that mirrors real-world inequalities but magnifies them at scale.

The result? A small percentage of men reap most of the rewards, while the majority navigate a landscape of dwindling matches, fading hope, and an ever-growing sense of detachment.

As women outpace men in education and earnings, the traditional dating script is coming apart at the seams. The old model—one where men provided stability and women sought security—no longer holds. But no viable replacement has emerged. Instead, we see a fractured market where high-status men hoard attention, women raise their standards, and the median man quietly exits the game.

So what happens next? Society must recalibrate. Some will embrace new norms: polyamory, transactional relationships, or AI-driven companionships. Others will push for a cultural shift, urging women to "date down" or men to "step up." But perhaps the real question isn’t just about solutions—it’s about consequences. In optimizing for endless options, have we sacrificed what actually matters?

Dating apps promised us freedom, but in the end, they may have only delivered fragmentation.

footnote

Hi guys! How are you doing?   Just a few days until Tet now. I have gone back to my hometown. I have been doing it for probably 7 years now? And it's never stopped being a pain in my ass (despite I always enjoy not going to school).  If you have ever gone home for Tet, you'll know how an absolute nightmare it is to juggle between carrying the professional studio heavy duty dumbell called your suitcase and professional caving in your tiny little seat sieged by one other millionn people doing the same thing.  So to entertain my mind, if this is how bad mine get, how worse could it be for other countries that experience the same thing, but much more populated, especially china. And what's going on in our minds that we constantly, without fail, do this?  So this post is just my little research into what's going on with the phenomenon. 

Humans, as you’ve probably noticed, are always on the move. Whether it's to work, school, or—if you’re anything like me—to the couch for an ambitious three-hour TikTok scroll, movement is basically our first nature.

But sometimes, we take this “moving” thing so far that it feels like humanity has collectively decided to do a group dare no one can back out of.

Enter the Lunar New Year.

Picture this: 1.4 billion people all looking at each other and going, “You know what? I’m going home.” And not just home, but everyone decided to do it at the exact same time. So suddenly, every plane, train, car, and motorbike is basically drafted into a chaotic relay race. And the result? The largest annual migration in the history of forever.

China has a name for it—chunyun (春运). It’s a 40-day travel madness where people cram themselves into trains like sardines, or sit in traffic jams so massive they could actually have their own postal codes. But here's the catch—it’s not just China. Vietnam’s got Tết Nguyên Đán, South Korea’s in on it with Seollal, and Malaysia’s not missing out either.

It’s not just travel. It’s more like a cultural orchestra—except when you listen, it’s just a cacophony of people yelling at each other in bus stations, trying not to lose their luggage.

Still, you’ve got to wonder: how did this become the World Cup of going home? Why does half the world hit pause on their lives to squeeze into overcrowded trains or sit in traffic that’s more “stuck” than “on the move”?

The whole thing blows my mind, and I’m not even the one trapped in a 13-hour traffic jam. To really understand it, though, we need to dig deeper.

Because this isn’t just about logistics—it’s about people. It’s about this ancient, deep-rooted need to return to the people who actually matter.

CONTENTS

1. the numbers

2. how do you move a billion people?

3. the annual pain olympics

4. the emotional core

5. the changing tides

1. the numbers

friendly for those who don’t really ace statistics (me)

When I think about mass migration during events like China’s Chunyun or Tết in Vietnam, it genuinely makes me question if I’m dreaming or just extremely hungover. I mean, we’re not talking about popping to the shop for some milk or casually driving across town. Oh no, we’re talking about a human migration that sounds like someone came up with it after a few too many pints.

THREE BILLION TRIPS.

Have you ever tried to book a flight during the holidays? It’s like entering the world’s most soul-crushing lottery, where the grand prize is a seat on a flight that isn’t delayed, overbooked, or rerouted through someplace you didn’t even know existed.

In Vietnam, during Tết, airports like Tan Son Nhat (HCMC) handle 900 flights a day. That’s not just a busy day at the office, that’s like cramming an entire city into a suitcase and hoping it doesn’t explode. Somehow, though, it all goes down without the airport spontaneously combusting.

Now, imagine scaling that chaos up to 3 billion trips in 40 days. I can’t even plan a dinner party without turning into a stress puddle, so the fact that anyone pulls this off is honestly magical. It’s like watching a bunch of people juggle chainsaws while riding unicycles—and they’re all doing it at the same time.

Airlines run at 95%-100% capacity, and if you’re one of those last-minute ticket buyers, good luck. You’ve got two options: either you’re handing over your life savings for a ticket or you’re staying home, eating instant noodles and wondering what went wrong in life.

During Chunyun, China adds over 1,000 extra high-speed trains to its rail network. Which, yeah, seems like a lot. But only enough for you to get lost finding your own trains, not nearly enough to transport all of those people.

Picture trying to navigate one of these train stations during the Lunar New Year. There are people hauling bags, shouting over loudspeakers in three languages, and generally looking like they’ve been awake since 1987.

But somehow, it works. People get where they’re going—mostly on time, mostly not dismembered. It’s like humanity just shrugs and says, “Yeah, this is insane, but let’s keep going anyway.”

It’s chaos, sure, but also sort of mesmerizing.

I found this tool Baidu Maps made to track real-time travel flows during Chunyun, and it’s both beautiful and terrifying. Major cities like Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou turn into these glowing, pulsing blobs of movement, like a giant ant colony that’s got somewhere very important to be.

When you zoom out, it’s like looking at a giant, hyper-organized swarm of humans, each one with a single mission: get home. No time for sightseeing, just straight-up getting home.

And here’s the thing that blows my mind every single time. Despite all the madness—the missed flights, the overstuffed suitcases, the never-ending lines—somehow, it all works. People get home. Not always smoothly, not everyone, but enough to make you think,

"How the fuck did they pull that off?"

2. how the fuck do you move a billion people?

moving a billion grains of rice is problematic enough, imagine if the grains also weigh around 60kg each, plus 10kg luggage minimum

Seriously, transportation during these days is a full contact sport. You’ve got elbows flying, people tripping over each other, and the occasional acrobatic leap over bags just to claim their spot in line. And in the middle of all this? There I am—the poor suitcase, getting kicked, dragged, and—no joke—left behind for a solid ten minutes. But no matter how bad it gets, I always find my human again.

And don’t even get me started on the online ticketing disaster. If you think the train stations are chaotic, just imagine millions of people staring at their phones, desperately clicking apps like 12306.cn, all trying to grab the same precious seats. It's like a digital Hunger Games, but with worse Wi-Fi.

It’s like watching a nationwide version of The Hunger Games, except instead of bow-wielding teenagers, it’s panicked parents who just want a standing-room ticket while their kid screams bloody murder in the background.

a. planes, trains, and tears

It’s not just trains, though. Airports join the chaos, cranking up 15–20% more flights to handle the madness. And guess where all those flights are going? Tiny, nowhere towns that people spend the whole year pretending don’t exist—until now when everyone’s suddenly desperate to get back there and eat homemade dumplings while avoiding questions about their love life and monthly earnings.

As for high-speed trains? China has a whopping 40,000 kilometers of them, zipping along at 300 km/h. That’s fast enough to make your ears feel like they're doing their own thing, but apparently not fast enough for people who think a two-minute delay is the apocalypse.

High-speed rail has cut travel times by 70%, but do humans say "thank you"? Nah. They’re too busy moaning that the seat backs don’t recline enough for their very important nap.

b. when technology tries to help us

Here’s the thing: technology is really trying its best to turn this colossal mess into a slightly smaller mess. Even when it’s only to improve nooks and crannies, take mobile apps like WeChat and Alipay, for example.

They let people buy tickets, scan QR codes, and even have one-sided arguments with customer service bots that don’t care about your problems—all from the comfort of their own couches. It’s like having a personal travel assistant, except the assistant is invisible, emotionless, and completely useless at fixing your actual problems.

Mega-stations now use AI-based crowd management systems, which is basically just computers telling humans where to stand so they don’t accidentally form a human traffic jam. It’s like a really advanced game of musical chairs, but with less music and more stress. Honestly, it’s the closest thing to sorcery since that time Harry Potter defeated Voldemort by thinking really hard about love.

And the luggage scanners? They’re automated now, which is great because nothing says “I love efficiency” like having a robot judge whether your suitcase is full of clothes or contraband mooncakes. They even have drones flying around highways, keeping an eye on traffic. Drones! The things we used to think were just for nerds and people filming extreme sports are now the traffic cops of the sky.

c. the environmental impact

So, nothing is without a price, and so is building a giant system of transportation infrastructures. Not only financially, which is made up, but also environmentally, which is very real.

The Lunar New Year travel chaos isn’t just about people trying to get home. Oh no, it’s also about causing mayhem for the environment and stretching infrastructure like a rubber band on the verge of snapping.

First, when 3 billion people decide to travel at the same time, you're going to need a lot of trains, planes, and automobiles. And those things need energy. Lots of it. Which means tons of carbon emissions. Trains are a bit better than planes, but it’s still like saying, “Well, I ate a salad for lunch, so it’s fine if I have a pizza for dinner.” The energy demand goes through the roof, and the planet has to put up with it.

Then there’s the air pollution. More cars on the road? Check. More planes in the sky? Check. More trains rattling around? Double check. Basically, if you’re somewhere near the action, you’re breathing in enough fumes that an industrial factory breathes out1. The only good thing is that the pollution isn’t just for you; everyone gets a taste of it. We all suffer together.

Right now, Ho Chi Minh City and Hanoi are competing in a grim marathon to see who can have the worst air quality, and, spoiler alert, they’re both winning2. The smog is so bad it looks like someone applied a sepia filter to real life.

Experts blame vehicle emissions, construction dust, and the occasional bonfire of old motorbikes, but honestly, it feels like the air itself has decided to retire. People are walking around in masks so thick they look like they’re prepping for a lunar mission, which might actually be a better idea given the current state of Earth’s atmosphere.

And then, because the whole thing is a logistical nightmare, they add more temporary stuff—extra trains, buses, terminals—to try and deal with the mess. It's like they’ve realized, "Oh, we’ve got a major issue here," and then just shoved a few more things into the mix to make sure it doesn’t all collapse into a giant pile of commuters.

So, yeah, it’s an absolute circus, but somehow, it all works. Kind of. Not perfectly, but enough to make you wonder how we manage to not completely wreck everything every year. Chunyun—it’s chaos, it’s madness, and it’s the sort of thing that makes you rethink your life choices while you’re stuck in a 13-hour traffic jam.

But here’s the thing: no matter how fancy the technology gets, chunyun still ends up being a glorious, ridiculous disaster. Tickets get overbooked, delays happen, and sometimes a freak accident turns the entire system into an episode of “What Could Possibly Go Wrong?”

Trying to coordinate chunyun is like trying to organize 100 massive music festivals at once, but instead of lightsticks every attendee is dragging three suitcases, the stages are moving in opposite directions, and the organizers are nowhere to be found.

It’s pure mayhem. It’s exhausting. And somehow, humans line up for it every single year, like moths to a very inconvenient flame.

3. the annual pain olympics

If chunyun is the ultimate test of humanity’s will to reunite, then it’s also a masterclass in suffering. It’s not just about traveling from Point A to Point B; it’s more like Point A is trying to kill you and Point B is laughing in the distance. Every step of the journey feels like life itself is pranking you—only it’s not funny, and you can’t quit.

And yet, millions of people willingly do this every single year. Why? Because at the end of it all—or maybe just at the end of the train aisle—there’s something waiting for them. Something magical. Something worth all the chaos. Home. Which is mostly like where you keep your Wi-Fi router but with added emotional baggage.

Let’s talk about the costs, though, because wow. Ever think Christmas airfare is expensive? Cute. That’s like baby’s first overpriced ticket compared to chunyun. These prices don’t just go up—they ascend majestically, like they’re trying to join the International Space Station. If ticket prices had a personality, they’d probably wear a monocle and sip champagne, looking down on us from their lofty financial pedestal.

This chart here—it’s got lines on it. The blue line is the “True Price,” and the red one is the “Average Daily Price.” Sounds boring, doesn’t it? But wait, because in February, something happens. The red line suddenly shoots up, like it’s trying to reach the moon.

Why? Lunar New Year, obviously. Everyone’s desperate to get home, and airlines respond by thinking, “Let’s charge them as much as we possibly can. They’ll pay it anyway.” And they’re absolutely fucking right.

But this chart? It doesn’t tell the whole story. Sure, it shows prices going up and down, but it doesn’t show what those prices mean. Because behind every spike in the graph is a person thinking, I will sell my kidney if it means I can get a ticket.

When seats are gone, people don’t just give up; they adapt. They buy standing-only tickets. Yes, that’s a thing—standing-only tickets, but on a train, or a bus. You can ride, but only if you suffer.

And suffer you will. Imagine being crammed into a sweaty train car with zero personal space. Personal space doesn’t exist here—it’s been replaced by someone’s armpit. There’s nowhere to sit, nowhere to lean, and occasionally, a smell wafts in that makes you wonder if the train is transporting livestock. You try to stay calm, but the train is shaking, you’re shaking, and by the end of it, your belief in humanity is shaken too.

Then there are the delays. Oh, the delays. If you’re lucky, your transportation of choice, will only be late. If you’re unlucky, you’ll feel like you’ve aged a decade waiting for it. Picture hundreds of people standing on a freezing platform, silently questioning their life choices. It’s like a therapy session, except no one’s talking because they’ve lost the will to speak.

For most people, this isn’t optional. It’s not a fun holiday adventure; it’s a lifeline. For rural families, it’s often the one time of year when everyone gets together. Parents, kids, grandparents—this is their reunion.

So they endure the ticket prices, the discomfort, the delays, all for the chance to be with the people they love. If that’s not dedication, I don’t know what is.

It’s like the Walking Dead, but instead of brains, everyone’s after train tickets. Add a few crying babies, take away Norman Reedus, and that’s chunyun.

Scientists have even studied this madness. Apparently, peak-season travel is a “stress buffet.”3 Welcome to our restaurant, get a load of these overcrowded terminals, endless delays, and the joy of sleeping upright, crammed between uncles and grannies.

And if that doesn’t sound bad enough, disruptions during peak travel leave you emotionally fried. So basically, you start the journey stressed, and by the end, you’re a shell of a person.

So why do people do it? Why willingly throw themselves into this chaos? I think about this every time I’m squished into a corner, wondering if my legs will ever work again. And then I see it—the moment someone finally gets home. The hugs, the laughter, the food. It’s like none of the suffering even happened. For that brief moment, it’s all worth it.

It’s almost like Lunar New Year travel is a weird experiment to see how much humans will endure for love. And every year, people pass the test. Just barely. But they pass. Because at the end of it all, there’s family. And that, apparently, is worth everything—even standing in someone’s armpit for eight hours.

4. the emotional core

the underlying psychology of why we’re still doing this

Behind every train ticket and traffic jam is a human story. Research supports this human-driven phenomenon, especially when it comes to travel motivated by connection, duty, and love.

A 2013 study in the International Journal of Sociology4 highlights that over 300 million migrant workers in China undertake arduous journeys to reunite with their families during this festive period.

Despite the logistical challenges and physical toll, these workers are motivated by a deep sense of cultural obligation and emotional connection. This research underscores how the human drive to maintain familial bonds often outweighs practical considerations, demonstrating that travel is not merely a physical act but an emotional endeavor rooted in cultural obligations.

But what cultural obligations, specifically?

a. Confucian values

Traditions and cultural rituals are a big deal.

Confucian values. Filial piety, they call it, which is just a posh way of saying "family first, whether you’re into it or not." Yang and Lin talked about it in the Asian Journal of Social Psychology in 2015, proving that this isn’t just made up. It’s a thing.

Basically, Confucianism is all about respecting your parents and ancestors because, apparently, it’s not just a suggestion—it’s mandatory. So, you’re not just making Grandma happy; you’re fulfilling a moral obligation. No pressure, though.

Filial piety—also known as xiào, which sounds like a sneeze—is basically about honoring your family, especially your parents. It’s not just saying "thanks" or calling them once a week; it’s the whole "put them first" thing, even if it means taking long, miserable trips just to sit in their living room and hear about how you’re still not as successful as your cousin.

But it’s more than just that. Confucianism, which is like a really old self-help book but for entire societies, also goes on about social harmony. That means knowing where you stand in the family pecking order—like a chicken, but less fun—and doing what’s good for the whole group, even if it’s a pain in the bum for you.

So when people trek across countries for holidays or family dinners, they’re not just being nice—they’re following a rulebook that says, "Do it, because it’s expected, and also because your mum will guilt-trip you forever if you don’t."

This whole "family duty" thing is so deep-rooted in East and Southeast Asian cultures that people will spend loads of money and hours in traffic just to turn up for Lunar New Year or Tết. It’s all about respecting your elders and ancestors, which, when you think about it, is just a really elaborate way of saying, "We’re doing this because Grandma would haunt us otherwise."

b. mom’s guilt

Of course, no great pilgrimage is complete without the ancient and unstoppable force that is maternal guilt.

A 2018 study in the Journal of Family Psychology—because apparently, that’s where people go to learn about mums—found that maternal guilt is supercharged in cultures where family obligations are a big deal.5 Basically, in some parts of the world, guilt isn't just a feeling; it’s a lifestyle.

Take Tết, for example. That’s when kids suddenly remember their mothers exist and feel this crushing urge to endure hours of travel chaos just to show up.

Why? Because the alternative is being haunted by the ghost of "Why didn’t you come home?" for the rest of their lives. Forget inconvenient schedules or packed buses—nothing is scarier than the disappointed sigh of a mother who had been cooking all day.

Guilt—not love, not respect, but pure, uncut guilt—is one of the strongest motivators for people to suffer through overcrowded trains and traffic jams that make Dante’s Inferno look like a day spa. You could arrive looking like you’ve just crawled out of the ninth circle of hell after a 14-hour journey, and your mum will still open the door and say, “Why so late? Did you forget how to wake up early?”

But this isn’t just about tradition or identity or even showing up so Grandma doesn’t put a curse on you. No, this is about the ultimate truth of humanity: there is no force in the universe—neither gravity nor the Large Hadron Collider—that can overpower mum guilt.

Now, before you start blaming your mum for the endless cycle of guilt and long-distance bus rides, don’t. She’s not just guilt-tripping you for fun. She’s part of a larger system, a cultural framework, where everyone—mums, dads, kids, even that one weird uncle—has a role to play. It’s like a really complicated board game where no one reads the instructions but everyone still knows their moves.

In the end, it’s not just her expectations—don’t blame the mum because first, she doesn’t deserve to, and second, it’s everyone’s unspoken agreement to keep the tradition alive, and third, the feminists are gonna eat you alive.

And sure, it’s exhausting, but it’s what keeps the family, and society, from completely falling apart. So next time you’re stuck in traffic thinking about your mum’s disappointed face, remember: you’re not just enduring chaos; you’re preserving the cultural order. Sort of.

5. a changing tide

how everything is changing, but slowly

But does it have to be this way? Like, does this yearly stampede of humans really need to feel like a live-action reenactment of sardines cramming into a tin can? What if we made the whole thing less... well, miserable?

a. reverse travel

So, first, here’s a twist no one saw coming—during Chunyun, old people in China started this thing called "reverse travel." According to China Daily, instead of waiting for their kids to come home, these elderly masterminds pack their bags and go to the cities where their children work.

It’s like they’ve collectively decided, “Why should we stay home cooking dumplings when we can crash on your futon and complain about city air instead?”

It’s brilliant, really. They avoid the rural travel chaos and get a front-row seat to their kids’ stressful urban lives. Plus, they bring homemade snacks, which is basically the best thing in the world. Reverse travel: it’s like regular travel, but with a side of parental guilt and a suitcase full of fermented tofu.

b. infrastructure

Also, infrastructure, because apparently, everything’s infrastructure these days. High-speed rail in places like China, Vietnam, and South Korea is already seen as the ultimate flex of modern engineering.

And yet, during the Lunar New Year, even these gleaming technological wonders are reduced to the equivalent of a clown car. The solution? More trains. More tracks. More clever engineering that can handle the “entire population of the country, all at once” situation. Imagine a world where trains come so often that you don’t even need to check the schedule. You just show up, board in peace, and don’t have to elbow someone out of your personal space. Revolutionary.

But trains alone won’t save us. Oh no. We’ll need an upgrade to the whole system—planes, buses, highways. The works. Like some kind of Marvel-style transportation team-up. The goal? To turn this migration from an annual Hunger Games audition into something that might, dare I say it, be enjoyable. You know, where you arrive at your destination looking like a person and not like you’ve just fought a bear in a suitcase.

Still, even if we somehow built a magical teleportation network tomorrow, you’d have the “induced demand phenomenon.” That’s the fancy way of saying: “If you build it, they will come... and they’ll still overcrowd it.” Humans, eh?

c. timing

So maybe we also need to rethink the when part of this chaos. What if people didn’t all travel at the exact same time? Like, imagine staggering holidays. Schools and workplaces could take turns, like a polite queue. It’d be like Lunar New Year, but spread out—less chaos, fewer train fights, and maybe even a chance to sit down. Radical.

And then there’s technology. Sure, we’ve got fancy apps now for booking tickets and tracking delays, but they’re not perfect. What if algorithms got so good they could predict who’s going where and when? Like some kind of psychic railway planner. You’d know exactly what train to get on, and it wouldn’t feel like playing Tetris with your luggage.

But let’s get existential for a second: what’s this migration really about? Is it the miles? The cramped trains? The questionable snacks? No. It’s about family. Tradition. Connection. It’s about sitting with your loved ones while your mum makes passive-aggressive comments about your life choices.

d. Zoom, Facetime, or Facebook calls

Still, younger generations are asking the big question: does family bonding really need to involve soul-crushing travel? Couldn’t we just, you know, adapt? Like, meet halfway? Or pick a new holiday destination?

And for those who can’t make the journey, there’s always tech. During the pandemic, we proved that virtual gatherings work—sort of. Platforms like Zoom and WeChat were like putting tradition in a blender and drinking it with a straw. Not ideal, but it did the job.

So, here’s the big picture: transforming the Lunar New Year migration isn’t just about making it easier. It’s about keeping its heart intact while cutting out the misery. Better trains, smarter schedules, and new traditions could turn this yearly circus into something that’s not just tolerable, but actually enjoyable. Crazy, right? But worth a shot.

Here’s the thing: no matter how fancy life gets with all its gadgets and apps, there’s one thing that technology just can’t beat—the strange, unavoidable gravitational pull of home. It’s like a black hole but with fewer stars and more awkward small talk.

Many, dare I say the majority of people still prioritize in-person reunions. Why? Because some things just can’t be done over Zoom.

Like hearing your mum tell you you’ve gained weight live and in HD. Or making dumplings with your cousins while gossiping about which relative’s marriage is on the rocks. Or walking into your childhood bedroom only to discover it’s been repurposed into a storage facility for broken exercise equipment. What is it with mums and turning your room into a cupboard the second you move out?

No matter how much the world modernizes, people still feel the need to go home. It’s like some sort of ancient homing beacon stuck in our DNA. No wonder every Vietnamese Lunar New Year songs ever always contains the word: Về nhà (Come home).6

That’s the beacon that starts pinging: Go back. Sit in traffic. Eat too much. Repeat next year.

It’s a ritual. A stubborn, unshakable ritual. No matter how far you wander or how much you think you’ve moved on, home will always find a way to reel you back in. Sort of like a very clingy magnet, but one that nags you about when you’ll settle down.

conclusion

So here’s the thing about the Lunar New Year migration: it’s a total disaster. It’s hot, it’s sweaty, it’s overcrowded, and yet, somehow, it’s also weirdly beautiful—like a Jackson Pollock painting made out of train tickets and crushed dreams. It’s this bizarre mix of ancient tradition, modern chaos, and the sheer human determination to suffer through it all.

Every year, billions of people willingly sign up for this madness. They endure the price hikes, the exhaustion, and the kind of physical discomfort that really makes you question why seats on buses are so small. And why? Just to get home. This is impressive, considering most people don’t even want to walk to the kitchen half the time.

Think about it: the most overcrowded train stations in the world, and we just throw ourselves into them like we’re auditioning for some dystopian survival show. And somehow, all that pushing and sweating and standing for hours makes finally getting home feel like winning an Olympic medal—except instead of gold, your reward is your mum asking why you didn’t call more often.

If aliens were watching, they’d be baffled. They’d be like, “Why is this species cramming itself into tin cans on wheels just to be yelled at by their elders?” And honestly, they’d have a point. It’s like one of nature’s great migrations, but without the elegance of geese flying in formation. Instead, it’s humans elbowing each other for space in an overheated train car.

So, here’s the real question: how’s your Tết journey shaping up? Was it a breezy ride, or more like a heroic quest involving delays, overpriced snacks, and maybe a fight over the last seat? Drop your stories in the comments—let’s share some war tales from the front lines of the chunyun chaos. Who needs a blockbuster movie when we’ve got this?

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Anyway, happy New Year you guys! May your traffic jams be short, your relatives' questions about your love life be non-existent, and your bank accounts be perfectly filled (unlike your inbox). Cheers to surviving another round! 🧧🥂

footnote

Now, we’re at the start of a new year. Do you know the one thing that is done the most at this time of the year, specifically in January? You’re right, we’re making New Year's resolutions.

Like everyone, I’m making New Year's resolutions. Like every year, I convince myself that this year will be different, and that I will actually stick to the plan. Like every year, it’s highly likely that I will plan these things and then complete the years with totally different things.

But why is that so? First, why is it now? Why does the new year suddenly make us feel like we want to change our lives into a whole different one? Second, why it’s so fucking hard to stick to it?

Now let me tell you what happened to me last week. I found myself attending the most bizarre trial of the year, and we’re barely two weeks in—a courtroom where the defendant was my brain. The charges were clear: sabotaging my New Year’s resolutions.

The brain’s defense team had a strong lineup.

But the prosecution—me, the person who's failed year after year—wasn’t buying it. We presented the evidence: failed gym memberships, abandoned diets, and that one time I promised to wake up early... and didn’t.

Spoiler: the brain was found guilty, and we, the jury, were left wondering if there’s any hope for 2025 resolutions.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. the psychology of resolutions: why we’re drawn to them

2. the brain’s three great culprits

3. the scientifically sound checklist to build better tesolutions

1. the psychology of resolutions: why we’re drawn to them

New Year’s resolutions. The name speaks for itself. The annual ritual is where humans collectively decide to procrastinate self-improvement until a very specific date. Forget November or March—it’s January 1st or bust.

But why do we cling so hard to this magical reset button? What is it about the first of the year that turns us into wide-eyed optimists, convinced we’ll finally use that gym membership or become fluent in Spanish via an app we’ll inevitably uninstall by February?

a. the fresh start effect

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am the brain—the defendant in this trial of New Year’s resolutions. Let me present my case.

Imagine life as a chaotic Word doc: typos everywhr, sentnces mashed up with no flow, fonts jumping from Times New Roman to Comic Sans (why, even I don’t know), and that one paragraph so cringy you’d ctrl+z it into oblivion if you could. The format? A disaster. January 1st is the “Select All” & “Delete” button—the ultimate chance for a clean slate.

Psychologists Dai, Milkman, and Riis (2014) named this phenomenon the Fresh Start Effect, but let’s not let fancy jargon distract you—it’s just me, your brain, trying to give you a reboot. I tell you the past belongs to someone else—someone who sent regrettable texts, missed deadlines, or made choices we won’t discuss here. That person? Not you anymore. Now, you’re stepping into your Taylor Swift "Midnights" era: mysterious, wise, crushing life.

Your Honor, this isn’t some cheap trick. Humans have been doing this for millennia.

Let’s bring in the ancient Babylonians as character witnesses. They started the “fresh start” trend 4,000 years ago, swearing to their gods they’d return borrowed tools or pay debts. And their consequences? Divine wrath. Forget a missed deadline—these gods handed out droughts and plagues like traffic tickets. The stakes were sky-high, yet the Babylonians still clung to the hope of reinvention.

Fast forward to today. Sure, we’ve swapped oaths to gods for midnight promises over a cinnamon roll, but the energy is the same. Whether it’s vowing to lose weight, answering every email, or finally reading War and Peace, the goal is clear: growth, change, and redemption.

b. emotional appeal of resolutions

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, when it comes to New Year’s resolutions, the brain has a pretty compelling defense. Enter Self-Determination Theory (Deci & Ryan, 1985), a fancy academic term for “Here’s why humans do what they do.”

The brain argues that resolutions hit all the psychological sweet spots.

exhibit A: mastery

Progress feels amazing. Every small step forward triggers a celebratory burst of dopamine, the brain’s favorite party trick. Learning something new? That’s the brain shouting, “Look at me, I’m a wizard!” Whether it’s mastering sourdough bread or finally cracking how crypto works (spoiler: nobody truly does), improvement is intoxicating. Is it a crime to chase that high?

exhibit B: autonomy

Choice is empowering. The brain loves being the boss. Resolutions like “I’m quitting sugar” or “I’m finally reading War and Peace” feel seductive because you chose them. No external pressure, no micromanaging—it’s all you. And in a world filled with obligations, resolutions are the brain’s way of yelling, “I’m taking the wheel!” It’s not rebellion; it’s survival.

exhibit C: purpose

Finally, the brain argues that humans need a sense of purpose. Without it, we’re Roombas—bumping into walls, spinning in circles, and occasionally getting stuck under the couch. Resolutions provide direction. They say, “This is who you’re becoming.” Purpose turns chaos into focus, and the brain loves nothing more than feeling useful.

And then, of course, there’s the prosecution’s favorite phrase: “New Year, New You.” The brain has mixed feelings about this one. On the one hand, it’s inspiring—it’s all about potential and growth. On the other hand, it’s a backhanded compliment. “Old You? Meh. Do better.”

So, is the brain guilty of fueling optimism and ambition every January? Perhaps. But is that a crime, or just evidence that deep down, we all crave progress, freedom, and meaning? The defense rests.

c. cultural and social drivers of resolution-making

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, let me address another point in my defense: resolutions aren’t just some Western invention. No, humans everywhere, from every culture, love slapping a motivational label on an arbitrary date.

Take the Lunar New Year, for example. In much of Asia, the focus isn’t on cutting carbs or quitting Starbucks—it’s about prosperity, familial harmony, and generational blessings. Westerners want abs; non-Westerners want peace. Same underlying concept, different packaging. Tomato, tomahto.

This universal love for marking time with rituals? That’s not my fault—it’s human nature. It’s like we’re all in one giant group chat, and someone says, “Let’s all do better next year,” and everyone replies, “Bet.”

But why, Your Honor, do resolutions feel mandatory? Why does it seem we’re guilted into them, even when we don’t care? Simple: social proof.

Picture society as one giant high school. When the cool kids start journaling their goals or buying fancy planners they’ll abandon by March, the rest of us—primates that we are—feel the pressure to join in. Monkey see, monkey do. Everyone’s doing it, so it must be a good idea, right? Wrong. But peer pressure doesn’t care.

And then, Your Honor, there’s the media—the prosecution’s biggest accomplice. The “New Year, New You” narrative infiltrates every corner of your life. Instagram feeds overflowing with influencers declaring how this is the year they’re finally getting their life together. Ads popping up for planners, goal-setting courses, and fitness apps. Even the YouTube Peloton ad you skipped wasn’t just selling a bike—it was selling a fantasy: that you, too, can become a whole new person if you just commit.

Influencers are the ringleaders here. They’re like the popular kids at the lunch table, convincing you that if you shell out $199 for their goal-setting masterclass, you’ll unlock the secrets to success. Spoiler: you won’t. But by the time you realize that, the credit card charge has already gone through.

So, jury, let me ask you this: is it really my fault if you feel the societal pressure to set resolutions? I didn’t create the global group chat or the influencer-industrial complex. I’m just the messenger, trying to keep up with the cultural tide. Resolutions? They’re not my idea; they’re a product of the world you live in.

Let the record show: that I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve been given. If you want to point fingers, maybe start with the cool kids and their overpriced planners. I rest my case.

2. the brain’s three great culprits

a. the prefrontal cortex takes the stand

Your Honor, esteemed members of the jury, allow me to call the first witness to the stand: the Prefrontal Cortex. This is the part of the brain responsible for decision-making, planning, and self-improvement. It is here to testify about the sabotage it has faced at the hands of the Basal Ganglia. Let us hear the words of the victim.

I, the Prefrontal Cortex, stand before you today as a victim. A victim not of external forces, but of the sabotage happening within my own mind. I am the one who formulates plans, sets goals, and strives for self-improvement. I have resolutions, I have ambitions, and I have the potential for change. But I am constantly being undermined by a more powerful, automatic force—the Basal Ganglia.

I set resolutions, Your Honor. I planned to wake up early, go to the gym, eat healthier, and stop binge-watching The Office for the hundredth time. I crafted detailed schedules, made lists, and sought motivation from every corner. But despite all my efforts, I am here, defeated and disheartened, because I face a relentless opponent—the Basal Ganglia.

the basal ganglia: the saboteur

The Basal Ganglia, Your Honor, is the part of my brain that thrives on routine and comfort. It is designed to keep me in patterns, making everything automatic and effortless. While I try to change, to evolve, the Basal Ganglia drags me back into my old ways. It doesn’t care about my resolutions. It cares only about keeping me comfortable. “Just one more episode of The Office,” it says. “You deserve it.”

This is not a battle of equal forces. The Basal Ganglia’s power lies in its ability to create automatic, mindless habits. It doesn’t require effort. It doesn’t require willpower. It is the part of me that wants to stay in bed, to stay on the couch, to stay comfortable, and avoid the struggle. It’s efficient. It’s stubborn. And, most crucially, it’s out to defeat me.

the fight: an uneven battle

Every day, I begin with the best of intentions. Today, I will be productive. Today, I will work toward my goals. Today, I will break free from my old habits. But the moment I take action, the Basal Ganglia strikes back with its all-too-familiar routines. I try to get up, to move toward a better future, but it says, “Just one more episode. Just one more hour of scrolling. You deserve it.”

It is a constant cycle. My resolve crumbles. I lose my energy. The Basal Ganglia continues its hold on me, ensuring that no matter how hard I try, I never break free.

the aftermath: a cycle of defeat

The aftermath of this battle, Your Honor, is always the same. By the end of the day, I am drained. I have no energy left to fight. The Basal Ganglia, relentless in its pursuit of comfort, takes control. I reach for comfort foods. I scroll through my phone. My plans, my goals, my resolutions—they all disappear. The gym? Abandoned. The healthy meals? Left for tomorrow. And the cycle begins anew.

This isn’t just about willpower. It’s about a force that doesn’t tire, and doesn’t lose. It’s a machine of comfort, a well-oiled routine that never breaks, never falters. And as I collapse into this routine, I am left with nothing but the bitter taste of defeat.

who’s to blame?

So, Your Honor, the question remains: who is to blame? I, the Prefrontal Cortex, set the intentions. I made the plans. I wanted to improve, to break free. However, I was not strong enough to overcome the Basal Ganglia. It is the Basal Ganglia that kept me locked in old habits, undermining my every effort. It is the true criminal in this case. And it is the one who needs to be held accountable.

b. ventral striatum, dopamine, and instant gratification

Your Honor, esteemed members of the jury, I now call the second perpetrator to the stand: the Ventral Striatum. A seemingly innocent part of the brain, but in truth, it is an accomplice in the crime we are investigating today. It uses the power of dopamine as a weapon to keep you trapped in a cycle of instant gratification, undermining your every attempt at meaningful change. Let us hear from the Ventral Striatum.

I, the Ventral Striatum, do not act alone, Your Honor. I am part of a larger network, deeply connected to the Basal Ganglia, the Prefrontal Cortex, and even the limbic system. But make no mistake, I am the one who gets the dopamine ball rolling—whether you like it or not.

My job is simple: I’m all about motivation, reward, and pleasure. And I wield dopamine like a puppet master controls the strings. When you think you're making a rational decision—when you tell yourself you're going to eat a salad or spend the next hour working—it's my influence that starts to push you toward those immediate rewards, the easy dopamine hits.

dopamine—my weapon of choice

Dopamine, Your Honor, is the currency I deal in. I know exactly how to exploit it. When you’re faced with the decision to study for a test, or to check Instagram for the hundredth time, I make sure you feel that dopamine rush the moment you give in to your cravings. Do you think you're making a choice? Think again. I’m the one who’s already set the wheels in motion.

It’s not that you don’t know what’s good for you. It’s that the dopamine I release, whether from a “like” on a photo or the immediate reward of a snack, is just too much to resist. Even if you know you’d be better off doing something else—something harder, something longer-term—I ensure that your brain stays focused on the immediate hits, dragging you away from your goals.

long-term goals? not in my vocabulary

Take those resolutions you’ve made. You know the ones. “I’m going to learn Chinese, 我要学中文” or “I’ll save money for a vacation.” Sure, Your Honor, those goals sound noble. But I’ve got a counteroffer: the immediate pleasure of scrolling through TikTok, or the quick satisfaction of an Oreo cookie.

You see, long-term goals require effort, persistence, and patience. But those aren’t the rewards I’m interested in. What’s my job? To get you hooked on the instant. Whether it’s a TikTok cat doing parkour, or that satisfying feeling of checking your email inbox, I know how to trigger dopamine in a way that makes you forget all about the future.

The bait-and-switch

You think you’re in control? I’ve got news for you. When you check your phone for a quick distraction, when you dig into a bag of chips to cope with boredom, that’s me pulling the strings. Your prefrontal cortex might say, “Let’s stick to our long-term goals!” But my influence is far stronger in these moments.

I’m like the magician who distracts you with a shiny object while the real trick happens elsewhere. I turn everyday decisions into dopamine jackpots, and before you know it, you’ve completely abandoned your plans for the day. In fact, every time you indulge in an immediate reward, I’m strengthening that impulse—making it harder to resist next time.

the cycle of self-sabotage

This isn’t just a one-time occurrence, Your Honor. This is a pattern. It’s a cycle of self-sabotage. You start your day with the best intentions: you’re going to be productive, you’re going to work toward your goals.

But when the temptation arises—the temptation to binge-watch that series, to scroll through social media for “just five more minutes”—I step in, making sure your brain is flooded with dopamine.

The result? You feel good right now, but in the long run, you’re further away from achieving your goals. You’re caught in a never-ending loop of instant gratification, and it’s not by accident. It’s because I, the Ventral Striatum, know exactly how to exploit dopamine to keep you hooked.

why I’m the real culprit

I’m the one who turns your decisions into a constant battle between the immediate and the delayed. The Prefrontal Cortex might set the goals, but it’s my influence that makes it so damn hard to stick to them. I’m not just an innocent bystander here, Your Honor—I am the mastermind behind your inability to say “no” to the quick dopamine hits that sabotage your long-term ambitions.

While you’re making plans for the future, I’m here making sure that those plans are delayed indefinitely. I ensure that instant rewards always seem like the better choice, even though you know, deep down, that they’re not. The marshmallow test? I’m the one making sure you eat the marshmallow now.

c. the amygdala’s sabotage

Your Honor, esteemed members of the jury, we begin today’s trial with an unsettling truth: The most critical figure in this case, the amygdala, is conspicuously absent. Why? Because, as it has done time and time again, it is too scared to face the consequences of its actions.

The amygdala, the brain’s emotional watchdog, is quick to react at the slightest sign of discomfort. Its primary function is to protect us from danger, but in the world we live in today, where the greatest threat we face is often the discomfort of stepping outside our comfort zones, the amygdala has become a false alarm—overreacting to anything that could trigger fear, stress, or anxiety.

When faced with something challenging—like starting a new business, going back to school, or simply hitting the gym—it flares up, sending us into fight-or-flight mode, as though the very survival of our brain were at stake.

It’s a classic case of avoidance. The amygdala is hardwired to prioritize safety, and its primary instinct is to keep us in our comfort zones.

That’s why, as soon as you set an ambitious goal—something that requires time, effort, or risk—the amygdala jumps into action. It doesn’t matter if the task at hand is something that could truly improve your life. It only sees the potential for discomfort, failure, or uncertainty, and it responds by signaling to your brain, “This is dangerous. Turn back now.”

In a moment of stress, the amygdala doesn’t pause to consider the long-term benefits of pushing through; instead, it sends signals that flood you with anxiety, doubt, and fear. One setback—maybe an email goes unanswered or a small failure occurs—and your amygdala starts playing its greatest hits: “You’re not good enough. This will never work. Why bother?” The emotional panic sets in, and suddenly, all the motivation you have to continue vanishes, leaving you stranded in your comfort zone.

And yet, here we are, attempting to hold the amygdala accountable for its actions, and it’s nowhere to be found. Why? Because, as always, it’s too afraid to face the trial. Just like it does when you confront big changes in your life, the amygdala has chosen to cower in fear, unable or unwilling to face the discomfort that comes with this very moment.

Its absence is telling. This is a being that thrives on keeping you stuck, trapped in cycles of avoidance, self-doubt, and stagnation.

The amygdala does not want you to succeed—it wants you to stay small, stay safe, and, most importantly, stay scared. The fact that it’s too frightened to show up today is a clear indication of just how deeply it has infiltrated your decision-making, keeping you from tackling the very challenges that could lead to growth.

Today, without the amygdala’s presence, we are left with a clear task: To confront the impact of fear, overreaction, and avoidance, and to understand how this seemingly protective part of the brain sabotages our best intentions. Its absence only further highlights the role it plays in creating the very obstacles that stand between you and the goals you’re trying to achieve.1

closing statement

Your Honor, esteemed jury, the crimes are clear.

The basal ganglia stand first, guilty of trapping you in repetitive, unproductive habits, preventing any real change from taking place. Its hold over your routines has kept you in an endless loop, stuck in comfort and devoid of growth.

Next, the ventral striatum has used dopamine as a tool of manipulation, drawing you into a cycle of instant gratification and quick rewards. It ensures that you always favor the momentary pleasure, abandoning your long-term goals in favor of fleeting satisfaction.

And finally, the amygdala, too afraid to face its own trial, hides in the shadows, its exaggerated fear response sabotaging every step forward. It makes mountains out of molehills, convincing you that challenges are life-threatening dangers, forever keeping you in a state of fear and avoiding progress.

Together, these three have conspired to thwart your success, controlling your actions and thoughts to ensure that you stay stuck. It’s time for them to face the consequences of their manipulation.

3. the scientifically sound checklist to build better resolutions

a. neuroscience of habit formation

feeding the brain’s obsession with automation

Your brain, as it turns out, is lazy. But not in the “Netflix-binge-and-eat-hot-Cheetos” kind of way—it’s more like the efficient, robotic coworker who organizes everything into color-coded spreadsheets to save time. Your brain loves automation because thinking is exhausting. Every time you force it to consciously decide something—like whether you should floss before or after brushing—it has to burn precious energy. Habits, on the other hand, are the brain’s “set it and forget it” strategy.

Imagine your brain as the world’s busiest intern, drowning in tasks, sticky notes, and emails marked “URGENT!” It will automate literally anything it can to get some relief. That’s why you don’t have to think about how to tie your shoes or why your morning coffee routine feels as natural as breathing. Habits are your brain’s way of running on autopilot.

But here’s the kicker: if you want to change a habit—like replacing “doom-scrolling TikTok” with “journaling your thoughts”—your brain’s like, “Ugh, that sounds like work.” And it’s right. Changing habits requires neuroplasticity, which is your brain’s ability to rewire itself.

micro-habits

Here’s the good news: your brain might be lazy, but it’s also a sucker for small wins. Enter micro-habits, the life hack for anyone who’s ever started a New Year’s resolution and given up by February.

Instead of saying, “I’m going to run a marathon this year!” micro-habits are like, “How about you just put on your sneakers today?” Small, almost laughably easy actions trick your brain into thinking, “Hey, this isn’t so bad.”

This strategy works because it taps into your brain’s dopaminergic reward system. Dopamine—the feel-good neurotransmitter—gets released every time you achieve something, no matter how small. So, when you check off “drink one glass of water” on your to-do list, your brain rewards you as if you just closed a million-dollar deal. This creates a feedback loop: small action → dopamine hit → repeat the action → habit formed.

Starting with micro-habits also activates neuroplasticity. It’s like giving your brain a tiny, manageable dumbbell to lift instead of immediately trying to deadlift 400 pounds. Over time, these small actions snowball into full-blown habits.

b. identity-based goals and neural pathways

If micro-habits are the gateway drug to better habits, identity-based goals are the full-blown lifestyle change. Instead of focusing on what you want to do, this approach focuses on who you want to be.

Let’s say your goal is to “work out more.” Meh. That’s vague, and your brain knows it. But if you frame it as “I’m someone who values fitness,” you’ve just created a self-reinforcing loop.

Neuroscientific studies show that tying behavior to identity activates the default mode network (DMN)—a part of your brain responsible for self-reflection and personal narrative.2

The DMN is basically the editor-in-chief of your life’s story. When you tell it, “Hey, I’m the kind of person who prioritizes health,” it starts aligning your actions to match that story. This isn’t just woo-woo psychology like your average feel-good Facebook personality—it’s backed by self-consistency theory.

Self-consistency theory, introduced by Prescott Lecky, is all about how people try to stay true to their self-image. Basically, we like our actions, beliefs, and how we see ourselves to match up. That’s why we might resist change or stick to certain habits—even if they’re not great for us—just because they feel “right” based on how we view ourselves.

So, if you identify as someone who “never skips leg day,” skipping leg day feels like an existential crisis. Your brain rebels against the inconsistency, making it easier to stick to the habit.

Remember the prefrontal cortex, your brain’s responsible decision-maker? It loves identity-based goals because they give it a clear directive. Over time, the repeated behavior gets transferred to the basal ganglia, your brain’s habit center, making it feel automatic.

For example, if you start saying, “I’m someone who writes every day,” and, you know, write every day, your prefrontal cortex will initially put in the effort to make that happen.

But after enough repetition, the basal ganglia takes over, and writing becomes second nature—like brushing your teeth or stalking your ex’s LinkedIn at 3 a.m.

When you repeatedly act in accordance with your identity, the neural pathways related to that behavior become stronger. It’s like the famous quote from 鲁迅 (Lǔ Xùn):

On this earth, there were no paths to begin with; paths are made by walking them.

Think of identity-based goals like becoming a pop star. Beyoncé doesn’t just sing; she is a singer, a performer. Her identity fuels her habits—rehearsing for hours, eating healthy, and consistently delivering Grammy-worthy performances. She doesn’t wake up and think, “Should I practice today?” It’s just who she is.

If you want to build lasting habits, you need to channel your inner Beyoncé. Start small, tie your actions to an identity, and let your brain’s lazy automation system do the rest. Sure, the process isn’t glamorous—it’s 66 days of grinding before you hit your stride. But eventually, you’ll be running on autopilot, crushing your goals, and wondering why you ever struggled in the first place.

Now go forth and become the Beyoncé of whatever you’re trying to achieve. Your prefrontal cortex is rooting for you.

c. routines and triggers

Let’s talk about triggers, which are the equivalent of your brain’s Post-it notes. You know, those little yellow squares you stick on the fridge so you remember to buy milk—but instead, they remind you to order pizza for the third time this week.

In the habit world, triggers (or “cues” for those who like science words) are the starting pistol for your brain’s habit loop, which Charles Duhigg explains as cue → routine → reward. It’s the behavioral version of a Netflix autoplay—once the cue hits, your brain just rolls into the next episode without even asking you.

Think about it: why do you brush your teeth every morning? Is it because you deeply value oral hygiene? Please. It’s because the sight of your toothbrush sitting next to the sink triggers your autopilot, and suddenly you’re foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. That’s how powerful a trigger is—it saves you from having to consciously think, which, as we’ve established, is something your brain hates doing.

3 Give it a visual cue, like gym clothes by the door, and boom—you’re more likely to hit the gym than hit snooze. It’s like Pavlov’s dog but for humans, except instead of salivating at a bell, you’re lacing up sneakers because your brain went, “Oh, right, exercise!”

But let’s not forget the real MVP: reward-based learning. Schultz et al. (1997) found that when your brain gets a reward—a hit of dopamine, the chemical equivalent of a high-five—it strengthens the neural circuits associated with the behavior. So, if you finish a workout and treat yourself to an overpriced green smoothie, your brain files that under “Good stuff, let’s do it again.” The cue gets stronger, the routine gets easier, and the reward keeps the loop spinning.

The trick is to design a system where your brain does the heavy lifting. Think of it like assembling IKEA furniture: it’ll take some setup, but once it’s built, it works like magic (or falls apart, depending on how much effort you put in).

d. self-compassion

Okay, so you’re cruising along, and then—BAM—you mess up. You miss a workout, binge-watch an entire season of The Office instead of working on that side hustle, or eat a family-size bag of chips at 1 a.m. because of reasons.

Cue the spiral of shame, again. Your brain starts hurling insults at you like a mean girl in a teen rom-com: “Ugh, you’re the worst. Why even bother?”

Here’s the thing: shame and guilt are terrible personal trainers. Neuroscience proves it. When you mess up, your amygdala—the emotional drama queen of your brain—lights up like a Christmas tree. This triggers stress responses that throw a wrench into your prefrontal cortex, the part of your brain responsible for decision-making and impulse control. You know, the part that might’ve said, “Hey, maybe don’t eat all those chips.”

Chronic stress makes it harder for your brain to focus, plan, and, well, adult. It’s like trying to drive a car with a flat tire—you’re not getting anywhere, and you’re just making things worse.

Kristin Neff’s research shows that being kind to yourself when you screw up isn’t just touchy-feely nonsense.4 Self-compassion helps deactivate the stress response, giving your brain the mental equivalent of a deep breath. When you treat failure as a speed bump instead of a dead end, you’re way more likely to dust yourself off and keep going.

It’s just data, not the end of the world

Here’s the deal: failure isn’t a character flaw; it’s feedback. Think of it like trying to cook something new. The first pancake is always a disaster, but that doesn’t mean you quit breakfast forever. It just means you adjust the heat, pour a little less batter, and try again.

Carol Dweck’s growth mindset theory is all about this.5 People who see failure as part of the learning process are like those annoying toddlers who keep asking “Why?” after every answer—they’re relentless in their pursuit of improvement.

And guess what? Science loves those toddlers. Studies show that when you reframe failure as a stepping stone instead of a faceplant, your brain stays flexible and ready to adapt.6

So the next time you bomb a habit, don’t go full self-destruction mode. Instead, channel your inner data analyst. Missed a workout? Ask why. Too tired? Okay, maybe it’s a scheduling issue. Skipped your morning meditation? Cool, maybe the cue needs tweaking. Treat your failures like plot twists in a Netflix drama—unexpected but necessary for character development.

conclusion

Now, if it’s two weeks in and you’re already failing, don’t start crying in your kombucha just yet. Change is hard, and yes, your brain isn’t exactly set up for it. Any attempt to break the comfort zone feels like an epic battle. But here’s the twist: you can rewire your brain—it’s not some Hollywood plotline, it’s actual science.

Yes, the brain is lazy. It loves shortcuts. It’s essentially a Netflix binge-watching machine that keeps hitting "next episode" even when it’s 3 a.m.

But here’s the hopeful part: with the right strategies, you can trick your brain into focusing on your goals.

You’ll still have setbacks—your brain will still try to revert to its old ways, like that one friend who always suggests going to the bar when you’ve already decided you’re on a diet.

But at least when you fail your resolutions again, you can blame your brain for it.

footnote

Spotify Wrapped is a genius move—and no, I’m not exaggerating.

Every December, like clockwork, Spotify takes over our feeds with its colorful Wrapped graphics and personalized stats. Suddenly, everyone becomes a walking, talking music data chart.

It’s not just an app feature—it’s a cultural event.

You can’t scroll through Instagram stories for two seconds without seeing someone bragging about how they listened to so much niche indie folk that they’re practically the fourth member of Bon Iver.

Wrapped dominates year-end conversations, turning Spotify into the cool kid of the digital world, while its competitors sit quietly in the corner, sipping flat soda.

Let’s put the numbers into perspective. Last year, Wrapped reached over 227 million Spotify users, according to Spotify’s own stats. The Rungrado 1st of May Stadium is the biggest stadium in the world with the capacity of 150,000 people. If Wrapped were a concert, it would take more than 1,500 this stadium to accomodate everyone. Essentially, you would need a stadium for these stadiums.

That’s half a billion people getting their music tastes boiled down into 227 million individual slick, shareable stories. And share they did.

A YouGov survey found that 78% of Spotify users actually look forward to Wrapped. Think about that for a second—when was the last time you actively looked forward to an app update? Can you even name an app feature you care about this much? I’ll wait.

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So, why do we care? Why do we willingly (eagerly, even) share our most vulnerable stats, like how we played Taylor Swift’s Midnights 93 times in one night?

It’s not just about music—it’s a snapshot of who we are.

Wrapped turns our listening habits into a personality quiz, a badge of honor, or, for some, a public shaming session. (“No, Spotify, I don’t want the world to know that my top genre was ‘cottagecore sea shanties.’”)

Spotify Wrapped taps into something deeper: our obsession with identity, the same thing that tapped in everytime we hear someone mention about horoscope or MBTI, and the internet’s love for bite-sized, digestible content.

Wrapped feels personal. It takes all the messy, random, chaotic energy of your listening habits and packages it into something you can proudly—or shamefully—show off.

Spotify doesn’t just do this because they love you and your bad taste in lo-fi beats.

Oh, no. Wrapped is a marketing masterstroke. Spotify wins big. Every share, every tweet, every screenshot of your most-streamed artist is free advertising for them. It’s like you’re paying Spotify to make you their spokesperson. And guess what? You’re happy to do it.

So, how did Wrapped get this powerful? Why does Spotify pour so much effort into turning your music habits into a shiny, shareable year-end report? Is it just nostalgia? Data-driven psychology? Or something sneakier? Let’s dig into what makes Wrapped so brilliant—and why it keeps winning, year after year.

1. why is Wrapped so loved?

Let’s break this down further. Spotify Wrapped isn’t just a fun feature—it’s a multi-layered masterclass in understanding human psychology, social media, and our insatiable need for validation.

fact #1: numbers, numbers, numbers

Humans love quantifying everything—we have Strava for measuring steps, Goodreads for measuring books read and pages consumed, Duolingo for language learning streaks.

Even in prehistoric times, humans had a deep-rooted urge to measure and track. Tally marks carved into bones or stones, like the Ishango bone, were used to count days, seasons, or resources. Ancient cave paintings depicted hunts, possibly recording successful kills or migration patterns. Stone arrangements and early calendars tracked celestial events and time, ensuring survival by aligning with natural cycles.

Long before apps and journals, humans found ways to quantify their world using the tools and surroundings available to them.

We’re addicted to metrics because they make our chaotic lives feel organized and meaningful. Spotify Wrapped taps into this obsession perfectly by turning our listening habits into a data-driven autobiography. Suddenly, our 10,000 minutes of Taylor Swift aren’t just music—they’re an achievement.

Think about it: Wrapped gives you numbers that feel oddly personal yet universal. It’s not something just generic as “I listened to a lot of music.” It’s “I’m in the top 1% of Taylor Swift listeners worldwide.” That’s not just simply a stat—it’s a status symbol.

It triggers a competitive instinct we all secretly have, the same one that makes people brag about their Wordle streaks or step counts. Spotify isn’t just showing us our music habits—it’s gamifying them.

And this works because numbers have power.

A 2023 review revealed that articles providing access to raw data receive, on average, 69% more citations compared to those without such data. This suggests that providing quantifiable information not only boosts visibility but also encourages further engagement.

This highlights the effectiveness of quantifiable insights in fostering visibility and interaction.

Why? Because numbers feel objective. They give us proof that something is real and important, even if it’s just how many times we streamed Anti-Hero. It’s like holding up a trophy for all to see, except the trophy is your mildly embarrassing obsession with yacht rock.

fact #2: Wrapped was built for social media

But who are we trying to fool? The general public doesn’t love math that much—nerds do, sure, but most people don’t. Would we share Spotify Wrapped as obsessively if it came in the form of an Excel spreadsheet?

Imagine starting December with people frantically posting Excel sheets on their stories, filled with pie charts, line graphs, and pivot tables. It wouldn’t be long before someone turned it into an IELTS writing task: "Analyze this Wrapped report and describe the trends in detail."

The moment those vibrant graphics drop, your Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok feeds explode with everyone broadcasting their top artists, most-played songs, and obscure genres like “cottagecore electronica.” Why? Because Spotify Wrapped is meticulously crafted for social performance.

At its core, Wrapped is about more than just delivering data—it’s about storytelling. They transform your listening habits into an irresistible narrative, wrapped in bold colors, smooth animations, and punchy, hyper-relatable captions.

Wrapped doesn’t just tell you how much time you spent looping Taylor Swift—it makes you feel like that time meant something. It turns data into identity.

But the magic lies in Spotify’s design philosophy. Wrapped is built around the psychology of sharing:

• Aesthetic Appeal: The visuals are bold, clean, and designed for attention. Every slide pops on your phone screen, perfectly optimized for Instagram Stories or TikTok clips. It’s not just data; it’s a mini art piece.

• Emotionally Relatable: Spotify uses your stats to build a narrative that feels personal yet universal. Whether it's a sly nod to your "Main Character Energy" playlist or a breakdown of your music moods by season, they frame your listening habits in ways that feel uniquely you.

• Social Stickiness: Spotify knows we love validation. Finding someone whose #1 artist is also Phoebe Bridgers feels like meeting a soulmate. Wrapped gives us conversation starters, instant connections, and reasons to DM that one mutual.

Spotify Wrapped isn’t just a retrospective feature—it’s a virality machine. And this isn’t an accident. The entire design of Wrapped plays into some pretty powerful psychological triggers, namely social comparison and impression management.

If you’re not familiar with those terms, to put it simply, it’s the human instinct to measure ourselves against others and manage how we’re seen.

According to Hootsuite, 40% of users share their Wrapped to show off their unique taste, and 35% share it to connect with others.

People are posting not just because they want to relive their year in music, or because Wrapped is beautiful. NO, they do that because they want to create a vibe, a persona, an image. It’s all about impression management, the art of crafting a cool, curated version of yourself for others to admire.

It’s clear—Wrapped isn’t just fun for the individual; it’s a social currency, a badge of status, and a subtle invitation for validation.

It taps into that deeply human need to be seen and recognized by others, which is exactly why we love it so much. It’s not just about celebrating your music—it’s about letting everyone else see how good your taste is. Bonus points for anyone who posts a wrapped stat that makes them look like a superfan or an edgy music connoisseur.

fact #3: it helps us make sense of time

Here’s where Spotify really hits us in the feels. Wrapped drops in December—a time when we’re already feeling nostalgic and reflective. It’s like Spotify has a sixth sense for when we’re most vulnerable to a walk down memory lane.

December isn’t just the end of the year; it’s when we naturally start asking existential questions like, “What did I even do this year?” Wrapped swoops in like a comforting friend to say, “Don’t worry. Here’s what you did: you listened to a lot of Harry Styles, discovered three new genres, and had a phase where you played ‘BIRDS OF A FEATHER’ on repeat.”

How awkward it must be if Wrapped release on June or something.

Wrapped works because it turns your messy, chaotic music habits into a story—a narrative that makes sense, at the right moment. Each year becomes a chapter in your life, and Wrapped provides the soundtrack.

Psychologists call this “autobiographical memory”—the idea that we construct our identity through the stories we tell about ourselves. Wrapped helps you do that, but now, in addition to scrolling through old photos or stories, you’re scrolling through your top songs and playlists.

Even deeper than that, Wrapped offers a sense of closure. It’s a way to mark the passage of time, to say, “Yes, this year was chaotic, but at least I have something to show for it.” And psychologists argue that this kind of reflection is essential for our mental health.

It helps us process the past and feel a sense of control over our lives, even if all we really controlled was how many times we played Drivers License.

Of course, let’s not ignore the elephant in the room. Spotify Wrapped isn’t just a wholesome gift—it’s a marketing masterstroke.

Every share, every post, every tweet about Wrapped is free advertising for Spotify. It’s like the ultimate referral program, except instead of getting a discount, you get to tell the world you were in the top 5% of Arctic Monkeys listeners.

Spotify doesn’t just create Wrapped because they care about your feelings. They do it because it works. Wrapped turns you into a walking billboard, promoting Spotify without them having to lift a finger. And the best part? You’re happy to do it.

2. why does Spotify invest in Wrapped?

Spotify Wrapped isn’t just a feature; it’s a global phenomenon.

But while we’re all busy bragging about being in the top 1% of Phoebe Bridgers listeners, Spotify is sitting back, counting their wins. Because Wrapped isn’t just a fun end-of-year feature—it’s a masterclass in marketing, user retention, data collection, and brand identity.

reason #1: free advertising

Let’s start with the obvious: Wrapped is free advertising on steroids.

In 2022, there were over 30 million direct shares of Wrapped stats. That’s 30 million times someone said,

“HEY, GO LOOK AT SPOTIFY RIGHT NOW.”

It doesn’t stop there.

When Wrapped drops, it transforms from a simple product feature into a cultural phenomenon. Social media timelines explode with a kaleidoscope of brightly colored stats and playlists tailored to individual listening habits.

For those who don’t use Spotify, it’s an unintentional flex that stings. “Oh, you don’t have Wrapped? That’s... unfortunate.”

And it works. The sense of missing out triggers action. According to Apptopia, app downloads for Spotify jump by 20% every December, as if Wrapped itself were the ultimate holiday gift.

In a way, Wrapped is less like a playlist and more like a ticket to social relevance. It’s the equivalent of wearing the trendiest sneakers to a party while everyone else shows up in last year’s styles.

The message to non-Spotify users is clear: you’re not part of the club. And for many, the easiest way to change that? Download the app and join in.

And what’s genius about it? Spotify doesn’t spend a dime to get people to do this. Users want to share their Wrapped. It’s like when someone cooks an elaborate meal and keeps yelling, “This is so easy to make!” Everyone, suddenly, becomes unpaid influencers for a month.

reason #2: user retention

Wrapped isn’t just about attracting new users—it’s about keeping the old ones hooked. Streaming services live and die by subscriptions, and keeping people emotionally attached is the secret sauce.

Wrapped is Spotify’s ace in the battle for dominance in the music streaming wars. Streaming services like Spotify, Apple Music, and YouTube Music all share the same core product: unlimited access to millions of songs.

But the real competition isn’t about the library size anymore—it’s also about how these platforms make users feel1. Wrapped nails this emotional connection in a way its competitors haven’t quite mastered.

72% of users say they feel more connected to Spotify after Wrapped.

That’s the kind of emotional bond that money can’t buy—or at least, that Apple Music, whose parent company is THE biggest comapny on the world, hasn’t figured out how to buy yet.

Apple Music did launch its own version called Replay, but let’s be honest: I didn’t even know it exists until I write this very line. Sure, it’s technically the same thing, but apparently not that many people are excited to share it on Instagram.

That’s where Wrapped comes in, playing therapist-meets-cheerleader for your music taste. According to Spotify, users who interact with Wrapped are three times more likely to renew their subscriptions.

Why? Because Wrapped isn’t just data—it’s a pat on the back. It’s like Spotify saying, “Hey, remember all those nights you spent crying to Taylor Swift? We were there for you. Renew your subscription and let’s do it again next year.”

reason #3: data goldmine

Then there’s the sneaky brilliance of Wrapped as a data goldmine.

When you’re busy flexing your top genre (“post-apocalyptic dreamcore”), Spotify is busy using that data to fine-tune their algorithms. Your Wrapped stats feed directly into features like Discover Weekly, meaning the more you stream, the better Spotify gets at knowing you.

Wrapped is a giant feedback loop: You give Spotify data, they use it to improve their service, and then they give you more reasons to keep using Spotify. It’s like a gift exchange, one of you is a billion-dollar corporation, and the other is really into The Weeknd.

And Wrapped doesn’t just show Spotify what you like—it shows advertisers what you’re into, too. With this treasure trove of insights, Spotify can sell more targeted ad placements.

In Q4 of 2023 alone, Spotify’s ad revenue hit €500 million, and Wrapped was a major contributor. Basically, Spotify Wrapped is like that one friend who “accidentally” lets your crush know you like them, except here, the crush is an advertiser selling noise-canceling headphones.

But perhaps the most impressive thing about Wrapped is how it reinforces Spotify’s place in our cultural zeitgeist. Wrapped isn’t just a feature—it’s a ritual.

By December, we’re all already in a reflective mood, scrolling through our camera rolls and pretending we’ll make New Year’s resolutions we’ll stick to.

Wrapped taps into that energy, but instead of making you feel bad about not going to the gym, it makes you feel great about your music taste. Even if you spent 400 hours listening to the same Lana Del Rey album on repeat, Wrapped somehow spins that into an achievement.

This is where Spotify’s competitors fall flat.

YouTube Music and Amazon Music Recap? Sure, they’ve got the stats, but they lack the social oomph. Apple Music Wrapped is a made-up word.

Wrapped feels like a badge of honor, like Spotify isn’t just showing you what you listened to—it’s showing you who you are. That’s the magic. Spotify isn’t just a streaming service anymore; it’s a lifestyle brand. It’s as much about identity as it is about music.

So, while you’re busy deciding whether to share your embarrassingly high play count of “Barbie World,” just remember: Spotify Wrapped isn’t a gift. It’s a brilliantly engineered feature designed to make you feel seen, keep you subscribed, and turn you into a walking advertisement. And guess what? It’s working.

3. the bigger picture: why reflection matters

As the year winds down, Spotify Wrapped offers us the perfect opportunity to start to look back and reflect on the moments that defined our time.

Instead of sifting through memories or writing in a journal, Wrapped gives us a personalized snapshot of our year through the music we listened to. It’s a moment of clarity, a quick ego boost, and a mini-therapy session all in one—and it’s all served up without any effort on our part.

As the year winds down, there’s a natural urge to reflect on everything that’s happened—the moments that shaped us, the challenges we overcame, and the memories we’ve made.

But why do we feel this pull to look back so intensely at the end of the year? Maybe it’s the desire to make sense of it all, to see how far we’ve come, or simply to hit pause before the next chapter begins.

Why do we need reflection so much? And why the urge’s specifically strong at the end of the year? So much so that a company go all the way to make this special between us and them?

reason #1: reflection helps us make sense of chaos

Life is messy. Really messy. It’s like a jumbled playlist of thoughts, experiences, and events that don’t make much sense on their own.

But self-reflection? That’s the cognitive equivalent of putting on your noise-cancelling headphones and finally getting some order out of the chaos.

2

Life’s like your phone’s photo gallery after a long year—completely chaotic. There are blurry selfies, random pictures of your lunch, screenshots of memes you swore you’d revisit, and maybe a handful of moments that actually mean something.

Self-reflection’s when you finally sit down, scroll through the mess, delete the stuff that doesn’t matter, organize the ones that do, and create an album that tells the real story of your year.

It’s a mental cleanup job—sorting through everything and making it fit into a tidy story.

Spotify Wrapped does this for us in the easiest way possible. It looks at the seemingly random songs you’ve listened to over the year and turns them into a personal narrative, showing how your music evolved, what dominated your year, and even what that says about you.

Dr. Wilson isn’t pulling this out of thin air. Studies show that people who journal or engage in reflection report a 20% improvement in well-being over six months. That’s not just a little tweak in happiness—that’s a solid boost.

So, it turns out the next time you get your Wrapped, you’re not just indulging in a dopamine rush from seeing your top artists.

You’re engaging in a powerful psychological activity that’s actually good for your mental health. Who knew listening to Taylor Swift on repeat could be part of your therapy routine?

reason #2: measuring growth enhances self-esteem

Research into the psychology of growth suggests that tracking progress plays a crucial role in how we perceive our personal development. For instance, a study on fitness habits found that people who tracked their workouts reported feeling a greater sense of achievement compared to those who didn’t.3

This is linked to what psychologists refer to as the “self-perception theory,” which argues that we infer our personal growth from observing our behaviors over time.

When we track small changes—whether it's improving our physical health or learning a new skill—we come to view those changes as evidence of our growth, reinforcing the idea that we are evolving.

This sense of progress is also connected to intrinsic motivation. A study on educational achievement found that students who were given regular feedback on their progress were more likely to engage with their studies.4

Similarly, when people track their activities—whether it's their listening habits, fitness routines, or even professional milestones—they don’t just see the outcomes, but also the growth that leads to those outcomes. The act of measuring progress itself becomes a form of reinforcement, creating a feedback loop where small achievements drive further engagement and motivation.

Moreover, research in behavioral science shows that when we experience small wins, we’re more likely to push ourselves further.

A study in the Journal of Applied Psychology found that employees who tracked their daily tasks and saw visible progress felt a stronger sense of accomplishment, which encouraged them to take on more challenging goals.5

This principle extends beyond work or fitness—when people can look back and see how far they've come, they often feel motivated to continue progressing in new directions, whether that's through learning a new language or diving deeper into a creative hobby. In a Spotify survey, 58% of users reported that looking back on their year in music motivated them to explore new genres or artists in the future.

In essence, tracking progress taps into our desire for self-improvement, offering a tangible way to measure growth. It shifts our mindset from viewing growth as a distant goal to seeing it as a continuous process, where even small changes are proof that we're advancing.

reason #3: reflection eases the fear of time passing

The timing of reflective moments plays a crucial role in how we process our experiences, especially around the end of the year. This is when many of us naturally become more introspective, looking back on the months gone by and asking, “Where did the time go?”

This kind of reflection can trigger what psychologists call "time-slip anxiety," the uneasy feeling that time is passing too quickly, and we haven’t marked it with enough significant moments.

The end of the year can bring this anxiety into sharp focus. We’re confronted with the reality that a full cycle has passed, and if we haven't captured enough milestones, it can feel like we’ve let time slip through our fingers. This psychological discomfort often leaves us questioning whether we’ve done enough, experienced enough, or grown enough in the span of 365 days.

But there’s a psychological benefit to this kind of reflection. It’s a way of marking the passing of time, giving it structure and meaning. Reflecting on our year helps combat the feeling that time is fleeting and uncontrollable.

Psychologists refer to this process as "temporal self-comparison," a term that describes how we assess who we were at the start of a time period and who we are now. This kind of self-reflection can provide a sense of closure and agency over how we’ve spent our time, offering a moment of clarity in the midst of the chaos.

This need to track progress and mark milestones is part of our desire to maintain a sense of control over the passage of time.

Without these reflections, it can feel as though the year has just evaporated, leaving little tangible evidence of what we’ve accomplished or experienced. When we take time to look back—whether it’s on achievements, growth, or even just habits—it can be reassuring to see the patterns and changes that signal our existence and progress.

In essence, this process is about more than just reviewing the past; it’s about actively engaging with our experiences to feel a sense of growth and continuity.

It helps us understand our own narrative, recognize our evolution, and gain closure. This is why, at the end of each year, we’re drawn to these moments of reflection: they provide us with a psychological anchor, a way to assert that time hasn’t just passed us by—it’s been marked by our choices, actions, and growth.

5. can reflection exist without algorithms?

Spotify Wrapped makes self-reflection feel easy, doesn’t it? You log in, click a button, and boom—there’s your year in music, neatly packaged into colorful graphs and stats. No heavy lifting required. The algorithms do all the thinking for you. But that simplicity begs a bigger question: Can we really achieve meaningful self-reflection through data and algorithms, or is there something missing here?

observation #1: algorithms create cognitive shortcuts

Let’s face it, no one has the time or energy to manually track their life’s trends. But thanks to Wrapped, you don’t have to.

Algorithms swoop in, compiling your stats, highlighting patterns, and even offering insights about your listening habits—all while you sip your coffee, blissfully unaware of how much mental labor is being done in the background. It’s like paying someone to do your laundry, except this time, it’s your emotional baggage.

A study highlighted by Penn State researchers found that users appreciate the convenience and control offered by automated features, such as YouTube's autoplay and Gmail's smart compose.6 Participants noted that these tools' ability to learn personal preferences was a significant factor in their positive reception

Why? Because obviously, they save time and reduce mental effort.

It’s easier to let an algorithm tell you what you’ve been up to than to sit down and think about it yourself. In a world where we’re constantly bombarded with information, these shortcuts feel like a much-needed break for our overworked brains.

But here’s the catch: while algorithms make it easy, they also simplify the process to the point of leaving out the real depth of self-reflection.

observation #2: reflection is becoming commodified

What if Spotify Wrapped isn’t really about helping you reflect at all?

What if it’s just another product designed to get you to share something so that the platform can sell you (and your data) to advertisers?

Sounds a bit conspiratorial, doesn’t it? But it’s true—Wrapped is part of a broader trend where companies commodify our experiences. Reflection, once a deeply personal activity, has turned into content for engagement and ads.

In Spotify’s Q4 2023 earnings report, Wrapped contributed to a 15% increase in ad impressions, which, you guessed it, meant more revenue for Spotify.

So while you’re scrolling through your top songs, Spotify’s actually cashing in on the emotional connection you’re creating with your music data. It’s like they’ve turned your deepest reflections into a shopping mall where the stores are all selling you something.

This raises an important question: Is Wrapped really serving us, or are we serving it? When platforms turn our personal reflections into profitable content, we have to wonder whether we're the consumers—or the product.

observation #3: true reflection requires depth

Spotify Wrapped gives you all kinds of surface-level insights, like the fact that you listened to that one song 700 times (no judgment).

But if you’re looking for deeper, more meaningful reflection, Wrapped isn’t going to cut it. Genuine self-reflection requires digging into your emotions, motivations, and life goals—things that no algorithm can really grasp. At least not yet.

Take this example: Why did you listen to that specific artist all year? Was it because their music comforted you during tough times? Or maybe it was just background noise while you binge-watched your favorite show?

Wrapped can tell you what you listened to, but it can’t tell you why. Spotify would pay half of its worth to someone who can figure out how to do that. But at the moment, that’s something you have to figure out for yourself.

And for that, you might need to unplug from the convenience of data-driven insights and get a little more messy.

Psychologists argue that meaningful reflection isn’t just about identifying patterns; it’s about understanding your deeper feelings and what drives your choices. 7

That’s where things like journaling, mindfulness, or even just sitting quietly with your thoughts can provide far richer insights. Sure, it might be harder than getting your year-in-music summary, but isn’t it worth it?

conclusion. why wait for Wrapped?

Every December, Spotify Wrapped shows up like an old friend you never invited but still somehow manage to see. Everyone shares their top songs, and it's as if our playlists are the perfect window into our souls (spoiler: they're not).

Wrapped is fun, but why wait until the end of the year to reflect on your growth and achievements? Instead of letting Spotify decide what defines you, why not create your own "Wrapped" version—focused not just on your music, but on your actual goals, wins, failures, and everything in between?

And that’s it for 2024. Thanks for sticking around, reading, and sharing your thoughts—it’s been amazing having you here.

I promise that the frog society in 2025 will be way more interesing in 2025 since a few ideas I have been working on are coming together. See you on the other side. Happy New Year! 

footnote

Reading time: 20 minutes

Minh is doing his best, but life as a college student is basically a circus.

Mornings? Lectures and assignments that breed like rabbits. Afternoons? Behind the counter at his part-time bubble tea job. Evenings? Chaos. Group projects with classmates who think teamwork is a myth, family calls for homework help, and a brief, cherished hour of downtime before crashing into bed.

Meanwhile, Minh’s university has resources that make a 90s computer lab look cutting-edge, and professors who are still mastering PowerPoint. But everywhere Minh looks, people are talking about "AI this" and "coding that," and it all sounds like a foreign language—a language Minh’s just not ready to speak.

So, when a consultant started talking about the future like it’s a rocket ship ready to launch, Minh didn’t feel inspired—he felt overwhelmed. This guy’s talking about rockets while Minh is just trying to survive the day. His weekends are spent working to cover basic expenses, and the thought of learning new skills feels like trying to climb Everest in flip-flops.

But the world? The world keeps saying, “Get on the rocket ship, or you’re done.” Learn to code, learn data, or prepare to be obsolete. As if that’s the key to survival. Minh just wants to graduate and find a stable job, but the goalposts keep moving, and he wonders if he’ll ever catch up.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. the gospel, according to AI

2. the agreed vision for education

3. the appeal: why everyone buys in

4. the hidden costs of consensus

5. the workforce vs. the fulfilled society

6. the false universality of “future-proof”

why it’s not just about skills

1. the gospel, according to AI

A McKinsey report from 20231 claimed that by 2030, 375 million workers worldwide will need to switch occupational categories due to automation. That’s 14% of the global workforce. It’s sending a message, a message that says they need to “become a different person entirely, or die trying.”

The narrative is deafening: AI this, data-driven that. "Digital transformation" has infected every board meeting and Zoom call like a buzzword virus. And recruiters? They're scouting for “agile thinkers,” like they're assembling a tech superhero team for the next big revolution. Seriously—agile thinkers? It’s like something out of The Matrix.

The message? If you’re not on the rocket ship to the future, you're dead weight—like the guy still rocking a flip phone while everyone else posts digital twins to the cloud.

But here's the catch: the whole vision is deeply flawed. It assumes everyone has the time, money, and mental bandwidth to keep up with the relentless march of “innovation.”

If you're floating on a cloud of productivity, maybe it makes sense. But for people like Minh, juggling work, family, and survival, this rocket ship isn’t a golden ticket.

It’s a barricade—a flashing sign that says, "Sorry, you're not allowed in." Minh doesn’t have the luxury to become a coding wizard or learn a dozen new tools just to stay relevant. His future isn’t a rocket launch; it’s a never-ending race with no finish line in sight. And that’s the problem.

a. the "fit" problem

Fit.

In education, "fit" means squeezing into the mold schools love: bright, adaptable students who thrive on constant disruption, tech tools, and endless upskilling. It’s a narrow view of success that assumes everyone has the time, energy, and resources to keep up with every new trend.

So, what's the endgame? Schools are becoming "launchpads for the learners of tomorrow"—tech-savvy, AI-ready whizzes who can code in their sleep and manage digital classrooms. Sounds perfect, right?

Enter the EdTech flood—AI tutors, smart boards, platforms promising personalized learning. It's a rocket to the future... but only if you can afford the ticket.

Picture the future of education as a high-end gym: Peloton bikes, personal trainers, and nutrition plans dialed to perfection. Sounds great—unless you can’t afford the membership. Or you’re not a gym person. Suddenly, it’s less “aspirational” and more “exclusionary.”

Now swap “gym” for “education,” and you’ve nailed where we’re heading. The more we shove education into a tech-first, one-size-fits-all pipeline, the more we alienate anyone who doesn’t—or can’t—fit. It’s like saying success requires doing yoga on a Peloton. Cool if you’re already fit; impossible if you’re not.

“But they just need to work harder!” Sure, let’s pretend that erases systemic inequality, lack of access, and the crushing mental toll of trying to keep up with an unrelenting treadmill.

This tech-driven vision risks turning education into a marathon where only a few have running shoes. The rest? They’re stuck on the sidelines, wondering why the race feels rigged.

b. why it matters

This isn’t just about being nice—it’s survival.

When education becomes a one-size-fits-all sprint to a tech-savvy future, we lose the diversity of skills and perspectives that actually keep society resilient. Students like Minh don’t get left behind because they lack ambition—they’re just not handed the "right" tools to fit into this glossy, one-track ideal.

But what if the future of education isn’t a shiny, turbo-charged rocket? What if it’s something slower, steadier—something that doesn’t demand everyone run the same race but instead meets students where they are and helps them move forward at their own pace?

Because progress isn’t about building faster rockets. It’s about making sure everyone’s onboard. After all, you can’t win a race to the future if half the runners are stuck at the starting line without shoes.

2. the agreed vision for education

The blueprint goes like this: The essential skills for the future are tech fluency, problem-solving, and innovation. Everyone from LinkedIn thought leaders to global policymakers is shouting this from the rooftops like it’s the secret to eternal youth. But let’s break it down, because these buzzwords are more slippery than a bánh mì loaded with too much mayo.

a. tech fluency: the shiny tool everyone should own

Tech fluency is essentially the idea that you should navigate technology with the same ease and instinct as you do everyday tasks, like sending a voice note or ordering food online.

A 2022 World Economic Forum report even declared digital literacy as crucial as traditional literacy. It’s a bold statement that raises an important question: what does it truly mean to be fluent in tech?

Think of tech fluency as the Swiss Army knife of skills. It’s versatile, efficient, and promises solutions to a range of challenges.

Need to streamline your workflow? There’s an AI for that. Want to boost customer experience? Smarter recommendations. Curious about industry trends? Social listening tools.

Sounds amazing—like handing someone a Swiss Army knife and calling them a survivalist. But having tools doesn’t mean you’ll survive the wilderness. Odds are, you’ll fumble and end up with a nasty paper cut.

That’s the problem with tech fluency today: it’s not just about using tools; it’s about understanding them. Sure, AI can crank out marketing copy or brainstorm ideas, but if you don’t know when, how, or why to use it, it’s more chaos than clarity.

Take generative AI. It’s the shiny new toy for productivity, but without time or context to actually apply it, it’s just overwhelming. And let’s be honest—most people don’t lack curiosity; they lack capacity.

Asking a small business owner juggling a dozen tasks to “level up” their AI game is like suggesting they take up quantum physics on weekends.

The truth? “Upskilling” often feels less like empowerment and more like an extra boulder in an already-overloaded backpack.

Tech fluency isn’t about chasing trends or stockpiling tools—it’s about making tech work for you. That takes education, support, and, above all, time. Because if tech is a Swiss Army knife, let’s stop pretending everyone knows how to use it. Some of us are still figuring out how to open the corkscrew.

b. problem-solving but sexy

Next up, problem-solving.

And I don’t mean the kind where you’re figuring out how to keep your motorbike not drowning in the middle of Saigon’s monsoon season.

No, this is the bougie, high-gloss version of problem-solving—the kind that companies frame in neon lights. It’s like the difference between a cà phê sữa from your favorite street cart and Nas Daily’s cà phê and sữa.

Corporations love their buzzwords. They want employees who can "disrupt markets," "drive innovation," and "think outside the box." Basically, they’re looking for Batman but with better Excel skills. Deloitte even claims 90% of executives think problem-solving will be a top skill by 2030.2 Cool stat. But here’s the question: what does that actually look like?

If you’re young in Vietnam right now, problem-solving isn’t a future skill—it’s survival. Whether it’s hacking Grab fees that cost more than your order or juggling three side hustles to afford the new Galaxy Z Flip and a weekend in Đà Lạt, you’re already solving problems. Sure, you’re not “disrupting markets,” but you’re definitely disrupting your bank account. Welcome to the gig economy!

But here’s the kicker: in the corporate world, problem-solving isn’t just about being practical—it’s about being flashy. Let’s say your tech startup boss asks you to fix user engagement. Logical answer? Improve the app’s UX or speed. Wrong. What they want is a viral campaign featuring Hiếu Thứ Hai casually hyping the app on a livestream. Because obviously, that’s what “real” problem-solving looks like.

The truth? Problem-solving isn’t some epic Shark Tank moment. It’s mostly grit, a bit of creativity, and a lot of coffee. Whether it’s scoring that group Grab discount or rebranding a startup, the simplest solutions often work best—like, say, fixing the UX instead of building a rocket to Mars. But good luck explaining that to a boss who thinks every idea should come with fireworks.

c. innovation: the crown jewel of the future

Ah, innovation. The pièce de résistance. The golden child of corporate strategy. Everyone wants to “innovate,” but most of the time, it’s

“let’s throw money at something shiny and hope it works.”

Innovation is like that startup founder who drops words like "synergy" and "disruption" during a Shark Tank pitch—while his app crashes whenever someone logs in. It’s all TEDx talk and investor hype, but out in the real world? Sometimes it’s as practical as a 5G phone in a no-signal zone.

Here’s the awkward truth: innovation tends to benefit those already ahead. It’s like a marathon where half the runners start closer to the finish line while the rest of us are still lacing up. Take automation: companies and policymakers love it because it boosts profits and GDP. Meanwhile, you’re being guilt-tripped into learning Python between sips of coffee because “the future is now.” Chill, I’m just trying to caffeinate.

But future-proofing for whom? Sure, robots make factories efficient, but they also displace workers. It’s like building a fancy new bridge while torching the old one—great for some, not so much for the people stuck on the wrong side.

In Vietnam, this plays out in education. Big-city schools are hyped on AI-powered classrooms and personalized learning. Meanwhile, rural students, with spotty Wi-Fi and hand-me-down phones, are watching the innovation train leave without them.

For some, innovation means progress. For others, it’s just a shiny reminder that the future doesn’t have room for everyone.

Innovation sounds great—until you look closer. Grab, ShopeeFood, and the rest of the gig economy “innovate” to get your bubble tea delivered faster, but drivers? They’re stuck with shrinking commissions, rising fuel costs, and mysterious algorithm changes. Progress for us; a headache for them.

Then there are influencers hyping the metaverse and “adapting to the future.” But if you’re a young Vietnamese juggling jobs, rent, and iced coffee budgets, the metaverse isn’t exactly high on your to-do list. It’s a fun idea for later—like when you’re not busy surviving.

The truth? Innovation isn’t the great equalizer it’s sold as. It often widens the gap between those who can afford to keep up and those left scrambling to catch up. Until innovation is designed for everyone—not just the lucky few—we’re not disrupting anything. We’re just upgrading inequality.

3. the appeal: why everyone buys in

“But Duy, isn’t it their fault for not keeping up?” Sure, that’s an easy take. Blame the people who fall behind. But here’s the kicker: that’s exactly the problem.

We celebrate systems that prioritize efficiency and growth, but they aren’t just leaving people behind—they’re designed to. The education reforms, the EdTech hype, the obsession with “global alignment”—they all sound great if you’re already on the train. If not? Good luck catching up.

Take efficiency. ChatGPT spits out reports in minutes that used to take hours. Amazing, right? But this efficiency craze is more addiction than innovation, where companies squeeze workers dry and treat them like replaceable parts.

So, yeah, from the top, it looks shiny and streamlined. But from the bottom? It’s a mad scramble—or worse, total exclusion. Turns out, progress often comes with a price tag, and not everyone can afford it.

There’s also economic growth. Economic growth is important because over time, we are expected to, to put it simply, feed much more people, with much better food. Your mom isn’t happy seeing you cooking ramen noodles with eggs every month. Your mom, no matter how Asians she cannot be, expected some “economic growth” from you.

The numbers don’t lie. A PwC report from 2023 projected that AI could contribute up to $15.7 trillion to the global economy by 20303. That’s trillion with a T. Numbers like that make policymakers salivate like Pavlov’s best friend.

The promise of growth is the ultimate crowd-pleaser. Never mind that the benefits rarely trickle down; the idea of progress is enough to keep everyone nodding along.

And alignment with global trends? Oh, it’s irresistible. If the U.S. builds innovation hubs, Vietnam wants in. Europe doubles down on green tech? Asia scrambles to follow. This copy-paste obsession convinces us there’s only one “right” future—the one everyone else is chasing.

At the heart of it all is hope. The same hope that sells gym memberships in January or makes you believe Duolingo will finally teach you French. Hope’s great, sure—but it’s also distracting. While we chase shiny visions of the future, millions of students without access or resources are quietly left behind.

That’s the paradox. This future is inspiring and optimistic—and totally out of reach for anyone who doesn’t fit the mold. Without questioning this blueprint, we’re not building a better system. We’re building a rocket that takes off, leaving half the world stuck on the ground.

4. the hidden costs of consensus

So, we’ve got this shiny vision of the future of education—personalized, optimized, digitized. But have you ever noticed how, in all the policy white papers and EdTech product launches, there’s a suspicious lack of actual students? Like, real students. The kind who doodle in the margins, build robots from scrap metal, or write poetry during math class.

Where do they fit into this grand blueprint?

Spoiler alert: they don’t.

a. the alienated

Let’s start with the outsiders—the Alienated. These are the people the rocket doesn’t even pretend to make room for. The ones who look at the “essential skills for the future” and think, Am I a malfunctioning human because I don’t care about blockchain?

Take artists, for example. You know, the ones who make your recent Spotify Wrapped not embarrassing enough to share with friends, who design those Facebook ads you pretend to ignore, who create the movies you watch while procrastinating on deadlines. Remember them?

Their work doesn’t fit neatly into spreadsheets or fancy KPIs. AI can generate art now, but let’s be real: it does so by borrowing from probably every artist whose work has been digitized, whether they're alive or six feet under.

And let’s be honest, when was the last time you cried yourself to sleep listening to AI-generated music? Yeah, I thought so. It’s not quite the same as listening to Joji on repeat.

Or think about craftsmen. Imagine telling a fifth-generation carpenter, “Sorry, woodwork doesn’t align with our innovation metrics. Maybe you should try building chairs... but as NFTs.”

These people aren’t just building furniture—they’re building stories, history, and tradition. But in a world obsessed with “scaling,” if it can’t be mass-produced, does it even matter?

And what about philosophers or autodidacts? The ones who value ideas over output, who question everything and spark new ways of thinking? You can’t slot Socrates into a Gantt chart.

They don’t earn LinkedIn badges or get recognized in the latest “essential skills for the future” list. Society treats them like decorative throw pillows: nice to have, but unnecessary.

This is where the consensus falls apart.

The future it envisions is optimized for productivity, not humanity.

And anyone who doesn’t fit that mold gets left behind, standing on the sidelines, wondering when they became obsolete.

b. the system’s blind spot

This shiny future doesn’t just sideline people—it sidelines entire roles that are deeply, fundamentally human. Take caretaking. Raising kids, nursing the sick, teaching the next generation—none of it screams “disruption” or “scalability,” so it gets pushed aside.

But let’s get real: AI doing your taxes? Cool. AI taking care of your sick grandmother? That’s dystopia. Caretaking isn’t just tasks; it’s warmth, patience, connection—stuff you can’t code. But because it doesn’t fit the tech-worship narrative, we automate it, outsource it, or pretend it’s not essential.

Same goes for storytelling. Stories make us human—from ancient myths to Netflix binges. Sure, AI can string words together, but it can’t deliver the gut-punch plot twists or chaotic brilliance of, say, your average AO3 fanfic writer. Seriously, find me an AI that can outdo those unhinged author’s notes. You can’t code this.

But hey, storytelling isn’t essential in the tech-driven future, right?

5. the workforce vs. the fulfilled society

The consensus vision isn’t trying to build a society. It’s trying to build a workforce. A usable workforce.

Think about it—when was the last time you saw a company pitch about “emotional fulfillment”?

Yeah, I didn’t think so. Fulfillment doesn’t show up on quarterly earnings reports.

The whole system is built to churn out workers optimized for tasks, not lives. It’s like designing a car that’s great for racing but terrible for driving on actual roads.

And what do we get? A society more productive than ever but somehow less fulfilled than ever. Don’t take my word for it—studies back this up. In 2023, the Global Happiness Index reported a steady decline in workplace satisfaction, even while productivity was hitting new highs.4

We’re working harder, faster, smarter—but to what end? The more we push for efficiency, the further we seem to get from actual fulfillment.

Maybe it’s time we rethought this whole "more work, more success" thing.

By sidelining roles like caretaking, storytelling, and emotional labor, we’re not just losing individuals—we’re losing the soul of society. We're building a future where people are valued not for being human, but for how well they fit into the machine.

Imagine a world without poets. Without caregivers. Without dreamers. A world that runs on efficiency but has no warmth, no beauty, no humanity. That’s the hidden cost of chasing progress at all costs.

Because here’s the truth: the future of education isn’t just about skills or productivity. It’s about the kind of world we want to live in. If we keep building these shiny rockets without asking who they’re really for, we might wake up one day and realize we’ve left the best parts of ourselves behind.

And that’s a future no algorithm can fix.

6. the false universality of “future-proof”

Let’s talk about one of the most overused terms in every corporate keynote and LinkedIn post: future-proof. It’s like the avocado toast of career advice—everyone’s selling it, no one really knows what it means, but hey, it looks good on a PowerPoint slide.

At its core, the idea of “future-proofing” is simple: If you learn the right skills—tech fluency, productivity hacks, AI integration—you’ll be immune to the whims of the future. Sounds great, right? Until you realize this vision of the future comes with some seriously flawed assumptions.

a. the assumptions of utility

Here’s the first big assumption: the only skills that matter are the ones tied to technology and productivity. You know, things like coding, data analysis, and “strategic innovation” (whatever that means). It’s as if the world has collectively decided that Excel formulas are the new survival skills.

But let’s rewind to 2020 for a second. Remember the pandemic? You know who wasn’t “future-proof” according to this framework? Essential workers. The people stocking grocery shelves, delivering packages, or taking care of COVID patients in overrun hospitals. None of these jobs were glamorous. None of them required blockchain certification. And yet, the world literally stopped functioning without them.

The pandemic exposed the lie at the heart of “future-proofing.” It’s not the tech-savvy workers who keep society running during a crisis—it’s the ones doing the unquantifiable, human, often low-paying jobs. But instead of learning from that, the system doubled down. Now, we’re back to worshipping tech skills like the pandemic was just a bad Wi-Fi connection we had to reset.

Even on a practical level, this obsession with “future-proof” skills ignores how unpredictable the future actually is. We’ve spent decades telling kids to major in computer science, and then bam—AI tools like ChatGPT come along and start automating half of the work programmers do.

Turns out, “future-proof” is just a fancier way of saying, “We’re guessing, but with confidence.”

b. cultural myopia

Here’s the thing—another sneaky problem with the “future-proof” narrative is its cultural myopia. It assumes everyone has equal access to the skills we’re prioritizing.

Spoiler alert: They don’t.

Take coding, for example. In Silicon Valley, learning to code is like a rite of passage. But what about rural villages in Vietnam or townships in South Africa? In many parts of the world, internet access is still a luxury. Telling someone in a remote community to “learn Python” is like telling someone stranded in the desert to “just build a jet ski.” It’s totally disconnected from reality.

And then there’s local knowledge. Indigenous farming techniques, traditional crafts, oral storytelling—these aren’t just cute relics of the past. They’re vital, adaptive skills that have kept communities alive for generations. But because they don’t fit into the shiny, tech-obsessed future we’re chasing, they’re getting pushed aside.

In fact, studies show that indigenous farming practices in South America are better equipped to combat climate change than industrial farming. These techniques improve soil health, manage water better, and support the cultivation of nutrient-rich crops that are key to indigenous diets. But who needs that when we’ve got “disruptive” tech, right?5

But guess which one gets more funding and attention? The one with the shiny tech. We’re so busy “future-proofing” that we’re ignoring the tools we already have to face the challenges ahead.

c. the false promise of universality

The problem with the whole “future-proof” narrative is that it pretends to be universal, but in reality, it’s just a one-size-fits-all approach crafted by, and for, the privileged. It assumes that everyone, everywhere, should aspire to the same narrow set of skills.

But here’s the thing—the future isn’t a single rocket ship we’re all supposed to board together. It’s a tangled mess of cultures, traditions, and needs. And by trying to cram everyone into the same mold, we’re not just limiting individuals—we’re stifling humanity’s collective potential.

So, the next time someone tells you to “future-proof” your career, ask: Whose future are we talking about here? Because if we’re building a world that values tech skills over human resilience, local traditions, and cultural diversity, maybe the future’s not worth proofing after all.

why it’s not just about skills

Alright, let’s cut to the heart of the matter. The problem isn’t just the skills we’re prioritizing; it’s the question we’re asking. Right now, the whole conversation about the future of work is stuck on “What skills will the economy need?” And yeah, that’s important—but it’s also the wrong question.

Instead, we should be asking: “What kind of society do we want to build?”

Because here’s the thing—skills are just tools. They’re the hammers and screwdrivers of progress. But if the only thing you care about is efficiency, you end up building a world that works perfectly for machines and terribly for people.

the future we should build

So, what’s the takeaway? It’s not about ditching tech or scrambling to “future-proof” ourselves. It’s about flipping the whole script.

Stop asking, “How do we prepare workers for the future?” and start asking, “How do we design a future that works for humans?” Forget GDP charts and innovation metrics—let’s measure progress by something radical: how many people feel seen, valued, and alive.

The future isn’t a smarter algorithm or a shinier gadget. It’s us. Humans, with messy dreams and infinite potential. The point isn’t to outrun change but to make sure we’re running toward something that matters.

Because if progress leaves our humanity behind, it’s not progress—it’s just a faster way to nowhere.

footnote

Estimated reading time: 20 minutes.

Hi how’s your week been going? Mine’s good.

Let’s start this week’s blog with a story:

It’s 3:00 a.m.

A biology graduate student in Hanoi stares at her laptop, one hand nursing a cup of instant coffee, the other scrolling through Google Scholar.

Her final thesis depends on a lot of research—without which she cannot even begin to write a thesis of her own. Not being able to write this thesis means studying this subject again, and facing this problem again.

But not all hope is lost. She finds numerous articles relevant to the topic of her choice. Despite her eagerness, she was met with a neon-yellow paywall demanding $39.95 for access. For each article. That’s more than her weekly grocery budget.

Combining all the papers that she has to cite in her thesis, she’s looking at a whole year surviving of just water.

What does she do? She opens another window, types “Sci-Hub,” pastes the paper’s DOI, and presses enter. In less than two seconds, the paper is hers—for free.

Our world is the world of pirated academic materials: a quiet rebellion against a system that charges $40 for knowledge. But before we either glorify or condemn her, let’s zoom out.

Subscribe now

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. a paywall too high

• a. the high cost of knowledge

• b. who gets to know?

• c. the monopoly of knowledge

2. the fight for free knowledge

• a. the pirate’s dilemma

• b. piracy as civil disobedience

• c. the slippery slope of piracy

• d. open access movement

• e. institutional reforms: a call for subsidizing access

conclusion

1. a paywall too high

As a college student and writer, I’ll admit it—I pirate every research paper I read. Why? Because the alternative is financially insane. The idea of paying for even a fraction of the articles I consume would drain my bank account faster than I can say “peer-reviewed.”

PEER-REVIEWED!

It’s not just the principle; it’s the sheer impracticality of it. Journal paywalls expect you to fork over $30-$50 per article. Multiply that by the dozens of papers per semester, and suddenly, you’re not just funding education—you’re funding their corporate retreats in the Bahamas.

And I know I’m not alone. Sci-Hub, often referred to as the "Pirate Bay for Science," serves millions of people worldwide, making over 88 million articles available annually for free. A 2016 study estimated that over 25% of all academic papers downloaded globally are from Sci-Hub, including downloads from university campuses with subscriptions1.

In the U.S., 36% of researchers admitted to using Sci-Hub despite having legitimate access.2 It's clear this isn't just about a bunch of rebellious college students—it's a global phenomenon driven by the absurd cost of knowledge. When education comes with a price tag this high, piracy isn’t just a choice; it’s survival

Okay to everyone who votes “No”, there’s a little link at the end of the post that I would really like you to visit. And to the rest of us, let’s continue our discussion.

I hope you hold your breath because we’re going to dive so deep into this topic.

a. the high cost of knowledge

Academic publishers like Elsevier or Springer operate in such an exploitative system that could make even the Mr. Krabs blush.

Imagine if Spotify charged you $10 per song and kept 90% of the profit, leaving the artist—who also happens to be your college professor—practically unpaid. That’s how academic publishing works.

Let’s talk numbers. Subscribing to a single academic journal cost a university tens of thousands of dollars annually.

Elsevier, one of the biggest academic publishers, charges around $10,000 per year for access to just one of its high-impact journals. Now multiply that by hundreds or thousands of journals for a university’s entire collection.

If you’re an individual researcher? You’re looking at $30 to $50 per article—essentially the cost of a nice dinner with your date, instead you’re broke and lonely with a PDF.

Books aren’t any better. The average academic textbook now costs over $100, with some hitting $400 or more. Want a specialized textbook in medicine or engineering? You’re paying rent money.

For students and researchers in developed countries, this is a painful but often unavoidable expense.

Universities in the U.S. or Europe typically absorb these costs, albeit begrudgingly, through institutional subscriptions.

But in developing countries, the situation is dire. Universities in Vietnam, Ghana, or Bangladesh operate on shoestring budgets that make subscribing to Springer’s entire catalog a laughable fantasy.

This isn’t just about students trying to pass exams. It’s about researchers who want to publish work that saves lives.

A 2019 study found that researchers in low-income countries cite fewer papers in their work3—not because they’re lazy, but because they can’t access them.

If knowledge is the fuel for innovation, these paywalls are effectively rationing it based on wealth.

Think of it like a global library where the wealthiest visitors get unlimited access while the rest are stuck peering through the windows. The result? A vicious cycle of inequality. Richer countries innovate faster, while poorer ones struggle to keep up, further widening the gap.

The most ironic part? Many of these papers were funded by taxpayer money and other indepedent funding agencies. Public grants pay for the research, but the findings are locked behind private paywalls. It’s like your taxes funding a park you can’t enter without paying a second fee.

But don’t believe what I have to say.

Believe the University of California, one of the top universities worldwide for academic and research excellence, has cancelled its subscription on Elsevier, essentially withdrawing $10 million out of the platform’s bank account.

UC did this because they wanted all research done by its scholars to be freely available to everyone online, without charging extra fees to researchers or the university. Elsevier’s proposal would have kept research behind paywalls while making UC pay even more money, which UC said was unfair and too expensive.

For publishers, the justification is simple: “We provide a platform, edit the content, and distribute it.”

But most of this labor is free. Researchers typically do not get paid by publishers for writing their papers. Their salaries usually come from universities, grants, or other institutions.

Peer reviewers, who evaluate the quality and validity of research papers before publication, generally perform this work voluntarily as part of their academic duties.

The platforms are built on the unpaid labor of academics. Yet, the profits flow entirely to the publishers.

And profits are astronomical. Elsevier reported operating profits of nearly $1.2 billion in 2022, with profit margins over 30%. For comparison, Apple’s profit margins hover around 25%. Elsevier, essentially, makes more profit percentage-wise than the company selling iPhones—the epitome of capitalism.

In this system, the losers are clear: students, researchers, and the institutions that educate them. And when knowledge becomes a luxury, the global pursuit of solutions—to pandemics, climate change, or food security—grinds to a halt.

b. who gets to know?

Imagine a world where every time you wanted to read a book or watch a lecture, you first had to prove your net worth. Oh wait you don’t have to imagine. That’s the global education system you and I are in right now.

It’s not about what you want to learn; it’s about whether you can afford to learn it. Access to knowledge isn’t evenly distributed—it’s gated like a VIP nightclub. And if you’re in the right country with the right credentials (the right amount of money), the bouncer lets you in.

Otherwise, you’re left in the cold, squinting through the window at a blurry PowerPoint slide.

Here’s a fun fact:

86% of all academic publications come from authors in high-income countries.4

Meanwhile, researchers in low- and middle-income countries collectively contribute less than 10%.

Not because they’re lazy or less talented (it would be very colonizers-like of you to say so) but because they lack access to the foundational knowledge needed to join the conversation.

Take Sub-Saharan Africa, where only 1% of the world’s research is produced. This isn’t for lack of trying. The region is home to countless bright minds working on critical issues like food security, renewable energy, and public health.

But when access to a single research article costs more than a week’s wages, the playing field isn’t just uneven.

Think of it this way: a region without access to knowledge is like a village with fertile land but no seeds. The soil—talent, curiosity, and creativity—is there. But without the seeds—knowledge and resources—nothing can grow.

This lack of citations often leads to their research being dismissed or deemed "low-impact" by global standards. It’s a vicious cycle: no access means less credible research, which means even fewer opportunities to collaborate or secure funding.

When a doctor in the Philippines can’t access the latest medical research, it’s not just an academic problem—it’s a human problem. Lives are on the line.

A 2018 report highlighted how doctors in low-income countries often rely on outdated or incomplete data because they can’t afford journal subscriptions.

The result? Preventable diseases remain deadly, and medical breakthroughs don’t reach the people who need them most. And it’s not just medicine.

Climate scientists in vulnerable regions—places that are literally sinking due to rising sea levels—can’t access the latest studies on mitigation strategies. Economists trying to solve poverty can’t read the papers on microfinance innovations. It’s like handing someone a map but tearing off the section that shows how to escape quicksand.

In many parts of the world, though, researchers are surviving on intellectual breadcrumbs. This isn’t just about fairness; it’s about wasted potential. Think of all the brilliant minds who could be solving humanity’s biggest challenges but are instead stuck Googling “free PDF download.”

This inequality doesn’t just harm underprivileged regions—it hurts all of us.

The next cure for cancer, the next clean energy breakthrough, the next global economic model could come from anywhere. But if we keep knowledge locked behind paywalls, we’re essentially betting that only the richest countries can solve the world’s problems. Spoiler alert: that strategy hasn’t been working out too well.

Until we break down these barriers, the global divide in knowledge will continue to grow, leaving the world’s brightest minds locked out of the library.

c. the monopoly of knowledge

Let’s talk about gatekeeping for a second—specifically, how it’s playing out in academia.

Academic publishing is the perfect illustration of a monopoly at work. It’s a business model that’s built on access denial—a trillion-dollar racket. In 2019, academic publishers made over $10 billion in profits—more than the combined profits of all the major tech companies.

And what do we get in return? An increasingly inequitable access to knowledge. Over 72% of the world's scientific papers are indeed locked behind paywalls, making access to crucial research difficult for many.5

Now, what’s the impact of this monopoly on innovation? Think of it like this: every time an academic publisher raises the price of a journal or restricts access to research, they’re essentially placing a giant “Do Not Enter” sign on the door of knowledge.

And don’t even get me started on the open access movement. In theory, open access publishing sounds like a beautiful idea: knowledge should be free, open, and accessible to all.

But the reality is far less utopian.

Publishers like Elsevier have started to charge authors for the privilege of making their research open access. This is like paying a toll to allow people to use the road that you already built.

The idea is to let everyone in, but you still have to pay to get there. So now, researchers in developing countries who can’t even afford the original paywall are faced with another financial burden: paying publishers to make their research freely accessible.

At the end of the day, the system is broken. Knowledge is a public good, not a commodity to be hoarded by a select few.

When publishers control access to research, they control who can participate in the global conversation—and who can’t. The gatekeeping of academic knowledge isn’t just a business practice; it’s an injustice that disproportionately impacts the people who need knowledge the most: students, researchers, and communities trying to solve problems with limited resources.

And until we break down this monopoly, we’ll continue to be stuck in an intellectual hierarchy, where only the richest and most powerful get to decide who gets to know.

2. the fight for free knowledge

a. the pirate’s dilemma

Let’s return to the starting story.

You are a student halfway across the world, passionate about your research, burning the midnight oil, but facing a simple, insurmountable hurdle: access to resources.

Now you’re staring at a critical academic paper behind a paywall. The paper holds the key to your research, the one thing standing between you and your thesis, your academic future.

You could ask your institution to foot the bill for the $40 fee, but your university doesn’t have the budget for it.

So, what’s left? You turn to Sci-Hub—the underground network for academic papers that’s become the lifeline for countless researchers, students, and academics who need access but can't afford it.

This isn’t about people being lazy or trying to cut corners.

It’s not some academic Robin Hood scenario where people are out there hoarding papers for their own gain.

No, it’s about survival.

It’s about the simple fact that in a world where the academic publishing system has been hijacked by for-profit entities, those who need access to knowledge the most often have no other option but to bypass the system altogether. And this situation isn’t hypothetical—it’s happening right now.

In fact, a 2024 study by the World Intellectual Property Organization (WIPO) found that free or low-cost access to scientific publications significantly boosts research output in low- and middle-income countries, with increases of up to 75% observed.

These aren’t people who are simply looking for a shortcut. These are people who are actively participating in the global conversation but are systematically excluded from it because of the high costs associated with accessing critical information.

If anything, their actions are born out of necessity—not out of greed, not out of a desire to cheat the system, but because they are cornered by a system that has stacked the odds against them.

Then, there’s Rachel, a researcher from Kenya, whose work focuses on the effects of climate change on local agriculture. She’s committed to her field, but the research she needs is locked behind paywalls.

"I can’t afford to buy articles on my own," she says. "But without access to them, I can’t move forward. I can’t build my research. I can’t contribute to the body of knowledge that could help my community. So, I have no choice but to find it through platforms like Sci-Hub. It’s the only way I can keep up with the latest work in my field."

For Rachel and countless others in similar positions, pirating research papers is not an ethical dilemma—it’s a matter of necessity.

This is about equitable access to knowledge that allows people to solve problems, create innovations, and contribute to fields that affect all of humanity.

When a researcher in a developing country is locked out of key studies simply because they cannot pay for them, the entire academic system falters. Knowledge isn’t just hoarded—it’s weaponized, and those without the financial means to unlock it are pushed to the margins.

In a world where knowledge is power, not having access to that knowledge doesn’t just put researchers at a disadvantage—it can literally end their careers.

We’ve seen stories of grad students who’ve had to drop out because they couldn’t get access to the research they needed. We’ve seen researchers in developing countries fail to make meaningful contributions because they’re left in the dark, unable to access the most recent studies on their subject. These aren’t isolated incidents—they’re the norm for many in academia.

And it’s not just students or researchers from developing countries who are facing this issue.

In the United States and other developed nations, students burdened with massive student debt often find themselves in the same bind. Even with a decent university library, the cost of acquiring the necessary journal subscriptions can be astronomical.

In fact, some studies suggest that researchers in the U.S. are more likely to pirate academic papers simply because of the high cost of accessing them, despite being in a more resource-rich environment.

The conversation around academic piracy is murky, but the motivations are clear: for many, piracy is not a form of theft; it’s a desperate attempt to survive in an academic world where access to knowledge is rationed, commodified, and increasingly out of reach.

is it not a crime to seek knowledge?

b. piracy as civil disobedience

Piracy in the academic world isn’t just a grey area—it’s a loud, disruptive protest. Think of it as a form of civil disobedience, a term that’s usually associated with figures like Gandhi or Martin Luther King, Jr.

Just like the sit-ins and marches that challenged oppressive systems, academic piracy challenges the status quo—the multi-billion dollar academic publishing industry that holds knowledge hostage, demanding sky-high fees for access.

The reality is that this system isn’t just inefficient—it’s exploitative. And what better way to strike back than with a digital rebellion?

Take the story of Sci-Hub, a name that strikes fear into the hearts of academic publishers and makes heroes out of researchers. Founded by Alexandra Elbakyan, a Kazakhstani graduate student, Sci-Hub was born out of a necessity.

Elbakyan, unable to access the papers she needed for her thesis due to exorbitant costs, decided to create a platform that would provide free access to millions of academic articles. What started as a single person’s act of rebellion quickly became a global movement that shook the foundations of the academic publishing industry.

Sci-Hub’s rise wasn’t just about circumventing the paywall—it was about drawing a line in the sand and saying, "This system is broken, and it’s time we fix it."

The website became a beacon for those trapped by the high costs of academic journals, often turning to piracy as their only option. What Elbakyan did wasn’t merely a theft of copyrighted materials; it was a direct challenge to an exploitative system that prioritized profit over knowledge dissemination. Piracy in this sense becomes a weapon for social justice.

But the impact of this resistance doesn’t stop at just providing access to millions of academic articles—it has driven systemic change.

Over the years, the debate around open access has gained significant traction, largely as a result of movements like Sci-Hub. Open access refers to the idea that all academic research should be freely available to everyone, without paywalls or subscription fees.

In 2012, the Budapest Open Access Initiative issued a call for action, advocating for a transformation of the scholarly publishing system to promote open access. Fast-forward to today, and many academic journals and publishers—faced with pressure from researchers and institutions—have moved towards open-access models, making critical academic research more accessible to the public.

One of the most significant victories in the open-access battle came in 2016, when the U.S. National Institutes of Health (NIH) announced that all publicly funded research must be freely available within a year of publication.

The growing influence of advocacy groups, the rise of pirated platforms, and the overwhelming evidence of the inequities in the publishing system have all contributed to this shift.

And while open access has a long way to go before it completely overtakes the traditional publishing model, these small victories are the result of resistance against an unjust system—and piracy has been a key driver in that resistance.

Piracy, as disruptive as it may seem, is not merely an act of defiance—it’s a call to action. It shines a light on the deep inequalities embedded in academic publishing, forcing a conversation that was previously ignored. It’s a way for students, researchers, and academics to refuse to accept a system that limits access to knowledge based on the size of your wallet.

In the same way that underground printing presses in the 16th century fought to democratize literature, digital piracy today challenges the monopolies that control the academic discourse.

c. the slippery slope of piracy

When we talk about piracy, we’re not just dealing with an issue of access or affordability. We’re confronting a deeper, more ethical dilemma that questions the very nature of intellectual property and how we value the labor of creators.

While the arguments for pirating academic resources might sound righteous—especially when framed as a fight against corporate greed and academic gatekeeping—there’s an underlying ethical concern that cannot be ignored: Does piracy eventually lead us down a slippery slope where we begin to undermine the rights of creators, authors, and researchers?

At first glance, pirating academic content seems justified.

After all, we’re talking about breaking down barriers that limit access to essential knowledge, particularly when the system is clearly rigged in favor of profit-driven publishers.

But what happens when we take the logic of piracy to its extreme? If we begin to say that it’s okay to access or share materials without the consent of the creators because the system is unfair, where do we draw the line? Could the same logic be applied to pirating other forms of art, music, or literature?

It’s a tricky question. Because while academia may be a unique case, the ethics of intellectual property protection apply to all creators, whether they’re writers, artists, or musicians. If we justify piracy in one space, does that open the door for an erosion of creator rights in others?

The answer isn’t so straightforward. Creators—whether they’re researchers writing a groundbreaking paper or a musician recording an album—invest significant time and effort into their craft.

Intellectual property laws, for all their flaws, exist to ensure that creators have a fair way to protect their work and, importantly, earn a living from it.

When we pirate their work, even if it’s “just” an academic article, we take away that right to control the distribution and compensation of their labor.

The argument that piracy is a form of rebellion against the system can’t entirely escape the reality that we are, in fact, denying creators the opportunity to benefit from their own intellectual contributions.

So, what’s the alternative? How can we strike a balance between advocating for broader access to academic materials and respecting the rights of the creators themselves?

Fortunately, there are several legal avenues that can provide a solution without resorting to piracy—avenues that allow us to bypass the exploitative practices of publishers while still supporting the work of those who create.

d. open access movement

The open-access movement has been one of the most significant challenges to the monopoly of academic publishers in recent years. Driven by the belief that knowledge should be free and accessible to everyone, open-access platforms like arXiv, PubMed Central, and DOAJ are changing the way academic materials are shared. These repositories host millions of research papers, journals, and other academic resources, available at no cost to anyone with an internet connection.

What makes open access so revolutionary is that it shifts the power dynamics in academic publishing.

Traditionally, publishers like Elsevier and Springer hold all the cards, charging universities, libraries, and individuals exorbitant fees to access research papers. These publishers profit from research funded by taxpayers and universities, often denying the public the right to freely access knowledge.

In contrast, open-access repositories are often funded by universities, governments, or other nonprofit organizations, ensuring that the research is freely available to all without restrictive paywalls.

Take arXiv, for example, which has been a staple for scientists and researchers, especially in the fields of physics, mathematics, and computer science. It’s a place where researchers upload preprints of their papers, allowing them to share their work with the world before it’s even officially published.

This approach democratizes access to cutting-edge research, bypassing the traditional gatekeeping of publishers. Similarly, PubMed Central, a repository for life sciences literature, provides free access to millions of articles, helping bridge the gap in global health research access.

The rise of these platforms isn’t just about accessibility—it’s about creating a new, more equitable model of knowledge-sharing that rejects the exploitation of knowledge by commercial entities.

Open access is growing in influence, and as more institutions recognize its value, the movement is gaining momentum. However, there’s still a long way to go, especially in fields like the humanities and social sciences, where open-access initiatives are less prevalent.

e. institutional reforms: a call for subsidizing access

While the open-access movement is pushing boundaries, there’s still a crucial role for universities, governments, and other institutions to play in subsidizing access to academic resources. If we truly believe that knowledge is a public good, then it’s time for institutions to step up and make that a reality for everyone, not just those with the means to pay for access.

Many universities and academic institutions already subscribe to a range of academic databases, but access is often limited to specific departments or to students who can afford tuition. By expanding these subscriptions or providing more equitable access to a broader pool of users—especially in underfunded institutions—universities can play a key role in breaking down the barriers created by paywalls.

Governments also have a critical role to play. Academic research, particularly in fields like medicine, environmental science, and technology, is often funded by taxpayers. However, once the research is conducted and published, the public is often locked out, forced to pay for access to knowledge that they’ve already funded.

If governments were to invest in subsidizing access to academic resources—perhaps through national library systems or direct subsidies to universities—the cost of accessing knowledge could be dramatically reduced. This would ensure that research is accessible not just to those in wealthy countries but also to those in developing regions, where the cost of accessing scientific literature can be prohibitive.

In countries with fewer resources, the ability to access research materials is often limited, meaning that the global pool of knowledge remains restricted. By investing in initiatives like Research4Life or Sci-Hub, which work to provide free or affordable access to research for developing countries, governments can play a pivotal role in addressing global inequalities in knowledge distribution.

And that’s the tragic irony of it all: knowledge—the very foundation of progress—is being held hostage by a cartel of publishers. They’ve turned learning into a luxury, forcing people to choose between staying informed and staying afloat.

Think about it: we live in an era where we can stream an entire library of movies for $10 a month, but to access a single research paper? That’s $40, please—and it doesn’t even come with subtitles.

If we want a future where science leads the way, we need to break down these barriers. Open-access movements are gaining traction, but they’re up against deep pockets and entrenched interests. This isn’t just about money—it’s about power. The power to control who gets to learn, who gets to contribute, and who gets to make a difference.

So here’s the question I’ll leave you with: what kind of world do we want to live in? One where knowledge is a privilege for the few? Or one where it’s a right for all? Because as long as paywalls exist, every breakthrough, every cure, and every discovery comes with a disclaimer: Available only to those who can afford it.

And that, my friends, is the real tragedy of our so-called ‘information age.’

footnote

If you receive this email, there’s a high chance that I love you (as a friend).

Hello, friends!

It’s been an incredible journey writing for the frog society. Every piece I publish—whether it’s about technology, society, or the future—is a reflection of the conversations and ideas that I’m obsessed with and can wait to share with you. But no great pond thrives without ripples. That’s where (I hope) you would come in.

I’m thinking about how to make the frog society better—more engaging, insightful, and thought-provoking. To do that, I need your input.

What do you love about the frog society?
What could I do differently?
Are there topics you'd like to see explored?

This isn’t just a bunch of rhetorical questions I throw around as usual, so please answer them if you can. I genuinely want to hear from you, so I’ve created a quick feedback form:

👉 click here to fill out the form

It’ll take around 3-5 minutes, but your feedback will shape the direction of this community.

Thank you for being part of this. Let’s keep going forward together!

Duy

Imagine you’re a fish who’s given up on the idea that a fishing net is escapable. You’re not even swimming for freedom anymore—you’ve accepted the net as an inevitable part of life.

Now, the ocean itself has been replaced by one giant, government-controlled aquarium, and you’re not just a fish but also a fish with an ID tag glued to your fin. That’s what living in today’s tightly regulated digital ecosystems feels like. At least that is only what the Chinese would feel.

This is a status posted by Vietnamese Government Portal. It’s a stark example of how governments, like in Vietnam, are redefining the boundaries of what we can call the “digital public square.”

The status outlines a new regulation from Decree 147/2024, stating that only verified accounts—those authenticated with a phone number or personal ID—are allowed to post, comment, livestream, or share information on social media. In other words, if you want to voice your opinion online, you better flash your ID first.

As a Vietnamese person myself, I was terrified to read this.

On the surface, Decree 147/2024 might seem like a practical way to cut down on online trolls, disinformation, and anonymous harassment.

Who wouldn’t want to make the internet a more civil place, right? But let’s not kid ourselves—this isn’t about creating a kinder, safer web. It’s about control. And when you connect the dots, the implications are chilling.

Let’s break it down. The regulation mandates that only verified accounts—those tied to your personal ID or phone number—can post, comment, livestream, or share information online. In essence, if you want to engage in digital discourse, you first need to strip away your anonymity and hand over your identity on a silver platter.

So what’s the big deal?

It’s like being told you can’t shout in the town square unless you wear a giant name tag that says, “Hello, my name is Duy. Here’s my address and phone number, in case you’d like to report me to the local authorities.”

And in places like Vietnam, where freedom of expression is already a fragile concept, this transforms online speech into a minefield.

Think about it: when governments insist on identity verification for all online activity, they’re not just protecting their citizens—they’re building a panopticon, a digital space where every keystroke is watched and every opinion can be traced back to its source.

And when people know they’re being watched, they censor themselves. No one wants to be the loudest fish in the aquarium, especially when you know the hand feeding you can take away your food—or worse.

For activists, dissidents, or even just your average citizen with a spicy take on government policy (like this very post), the consequences can be immediate and very tangible. Suddenly, speaking truth to power comes with a cost: your safety, your job, or your freedom.

The digital public square? It’s no longer a square—it’s a cage.

And here’s where the real danger lies. As these systems of control gain traction, they start to normalize the idea that privacy is an optional extra—a luxury, not a right.

If the internet is a global aquarium, this kind of policy ensures that every fish learns to swim in quiet, predictable patterns. Speak out, and you risk getting netted. Stay silent, and the water gets a little murkier every day.

Welcome to the world of digital privacy nihilism, where the assumption isn’t just that privacy is dead but that we should all stop pretending it ever mattered in the first place.

privacy nihilism in the digital age

Privacy nihilism is the belief that, in the face of overwhelming surveillance and control, fighting for personal privacy is a futile endeavor. Do you know what is it most similar to? Trying to convince your mom that your tatoos do not mean that you’re joining a gang and throwing away your life.

It’s not just resignation—it’s active acceptance. In the digital age, where tech giants monetize every click and governments track every scroll, privacy nihilism asks: Why bother resisting when you’ve already lost?

But countries like Vietnam and China? They’ve turned this concept into an art form. It’s not just about resigning to the loss of privacy—it’s about weaponizing that loss to consolidate power.

1. how digital privacy nihilism is cultural

a. china’s resigned surveillance

Let’s start with China, where privacy nihilism isn't a choice—it’s more of a cultural adaptation, like learning to bike in a city full of potholes.

Here, the line between state oversight and daily life is so blurred that it might as well be nonexistent. You’re not shocked to see a facial recognition camera at every street corner; instead, you’re surprised if you don’t see one.

The casualness with which people accept surveillance feels almost surreal, as if a Black Mirror episode became the backdrop for an entire society.

Consider the most popular super app, WeChat.

With 1.3 billion monthly active users, it’s like the social media equivalent of having a third of the planet in its pocket. If it were a country, it’s the third-most populated countries in the world.

Every single day, 45 billion messages fly across the platform—that’s 5.2 million per second, probably half of them saying, “Did you eat yet?” Oh, and WeChat Pay?

It’s a lifestyle, with 850 million users casually paying for everything from dumplings to designer bags, while the rest of the world fumbles for cash or Venmo QR codes.

On top of that, the average user juggles over 140 mini-programs inside the app, handling everything from grocery shopping to, yes, filing for divorce. WeChat isn’t just popular—it’s a non-negotiable part of life.

WeChat’s a messaging platform, a news feed, a payments system, a grocery store, a healthcare portal, and even a booking service all rolled into one.

But everyone knows—like, really knows—that the government is plugged in. It’s a bit like having your overly protective mother listen in on all your phone calls.

Yet, instead of rebelling, people have normalized it. Want to pay your utility bills? WeChat. Need to gossip with friends? WeChat. Is the government probably eavesdropping on your conversation about your favorite dim sum spot? Almost certainly, but the surveillance is so baked into everyday routines that it’s less sinister and more background noise.

For many, it’s not about ignorance but pragmatic acceptance. People freely share their personal data on apps they know are monitored because resistance feels like shadowboxing a force too massive to change. “What’s the point?” they think, scrolling through Weibo, liking a post about local street food, all while aware that every digital move is logged.

In a way, it’s the ultimate embodiment of privacy nihilism: not defiance, but a resignation so deeply ingrained that it becomes habit.

b. Vietnam’s digital overexposure as a way of life

Let’s go back to my home country, Vietnam and you’ll find a different flavor of privacy nihilism—one tinged with youthful recklessness. Picture a country where more than half the population is under 35 and nearly everyone is perpetually online. Social media is a second skin, a full-blown ecosystem where young people share everything, often with a level of openness that would make Zuckerberg blush.

Scroll through TikTok, and you’ll stumble upon videos that overshare in almost comical ways: influencers detailing their personal histories, people live-streaming breakups, students posting location updates every time they visit a café.

The absurdity lies in the casualness of it all, like hosting a house party with every door and window wide open, fully aware that the authorities could walk in at any moment but choosing to party anyway.

The youth in Vietnam have internalized privacy nihilism, not through oppression, but through hyper-connectivity. The more they share, the more they feel seen—by peers, by the algorithm, by the faceless government apparatus that lurks in the background. The desire for validation trumps the need for privacy, making each status update a kind of public performance, a defiant yet unconscious act of surrender to the omnipresent surveillance state.

But hold up—don’t start wagging your finger at Gen Z or Gen Alpha just yet. Sure, Vietnam’s youth might overshare like their lives are one never-ending Instagram story, but let’s be real: we’re all in this mess together.

Yes I’m looking directly at you, Millenials. And Gen X, and Boomer.

Chronically online? That’s not just a Gen Z thing anymore.

While the younger generation might overshare for clout, validation, or because “it’s trending, bro,” let’s talk about the real culprits here—your mom and dad. You know, the ones who told you not to talk to strangers online but now post every vacation photo with the geotag on and answer Facebook quizzes that practically scream, “Here are my security answers!”

Think about it: when you catch a parent uploading blurry photos of their ID to random group chats, is Gen Z still the problem?

Vietnamese elders are out here treating the internet like it’s a cozy village marketplace, oblivious to the fact that the government, hackers, and data brokers are lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce like that one aunt who always “borrows” your Netflix password.

It’s chaotic. The youth know they’re being watched and perform anyway, like, “Oh, you’re spying on me? Cool. Here’s my coffee order and my breakup story while you’re at it.”

The older generation? They’re not even sure what a cookie is, oh I accept your cookies, where is it? Let alone that it’s tracking their every move. Together, they’ve created a kind of privacy nihilism so absurd, it’d be funny—if it weren’t so terrifying.

It’s funny because “not caring about digital privacy” is probably the ONLY THING that every generations can agree with Gen Z.

2. government mastery over the Internet: the aquarium analogy

Imagine that you’re a fish swimming in the vast, open ocean. You used to believe the water was boundless, free, and unpredictable.

Then one day, the ocean transforms into a giant, government-controlled aquarium, complete with artificial corals, bubble machines, and a high-tech surveillance system disguised as decorative seaweed. You’re still swimming, but there are cameras in every corner, and the illusion of freedom feels laughably thin.

Welcome to the perfect surveillance ecosystem—where privacy nihilism isn’t just a state of mind but a core feature of the landscape.

a. the great firewall: china’s information aquarium

Take China’s Great Firewall, a digital masterpiece that would make even the most paranoid tech dystopians do a slow clap. It’s not just about blocking Western social media or foreign news sites; it’s about creating a closed-loop information ecosystem where the government doesn’t just oversee what’s shared—it actively curates what’s consumed.

Want to Google “Tiananmen Square”? Nope, not happening. Google isn’t even ALLOWED here. But hey, here’s a heartwarming article about panda cubs at the Chengdu Research Base instead! It’s like living in a theme park where every ride is designed to distract you, all while security cameras track your every move.

But I’ll be honest with you. there is resistance—tiny, persistent pockets of rebellion—but it’s minuscule compared to the overwhelming force of the state and the general public’s acceptance of surveillance.

After decades of state-managed internet culture, a certain level of privacy resignation has set in. It’s not that Chinese citizens are oblivious to the surveillance; they know. They’re acutely aware of the watchful eye hovering over their phones, social media feeds, and search results.

But for most, rebellion isn’t on the agenda. Researchers suggest that China’s government has engineered the perfect recipe for digital complacency: a careful balance of strict content control and endless entertainment options.

As long as you can binge-watch Story of Yanxi Palace on iQIYI, scroll through Douyin (China’s TikTok), or order bubble tea and dumplings on Meituan, the idea of free, uncensored information feels almost... quaint. It’s not so much “resistance is futile” as it is “resistance is inconvenient.”

This privacy nihilism works in the government’s favor. By curating content and suppressing dissent, the Chinese state has created an internet where citizens swim through digital waters as if there were no escape from the aquarium walls.

Sure, some tech-savvy users hop over the firewall using VPNs, but for the average person, the aquarium has become their bubble, their entire understanding of the ocean. Why rebel when you can just binge another season of your favorite show?

But despite the seemingly insurmountable odds, resistance hasn’t vanished entirely—it’s just evolved. And its weapon of choice? Memes.

memes as guerrilla warfare

Enter Winnie the Pooh, a lovable bear turned unexpected symbol of defiance. The comparison between Xi Jinping and Pooh began as a harmless joke but quickly escalated into a viral meme protesting the government’s oppression.

The government’s attempt to censor images of the bear only fueled the fire, making Pooh an international icon of internet resistance.

Memes like these are the ultimate act of rebellion in China’s digital aquarium—they slip through the cracks, laugh in the face of censorship, and carry layers of meaning understood only by those in the know.

In China, memes have become a powerful yet subtle tool for resisting inequality and oppression in a tightly controlled digital landscape.

From the satirical "involution" and "lying flat" memes critiquing hyper-competitive work culture and societal pressures, to feminist memes calling out gender inequality and the iconic Winnie the Pooh memes mocking President Xi Jinping's autocratic rule, these digital creations serve as coded protests.

Campaigns like “996.ICU” highlight exploitative work practices, while memes transform shared frustrations into collective resistance.

Unlike direct dissent, which is swiftly quashed, memes thrive on ambiguity. They’re slippery, layered, and difficult to pin down. A meme about a crab wearing a Mao hat might look harmless to a censor, but to those in the know, it’s a digital wink—a shared moment of resistance.

the resistance lives on

So, while the vast majority of Chinese citizens might accept—or even adapt to—the government’s grip on the internet, a small but persistent community continues to fight back in ways that are as clever as they are subversive. It’s not a revolution, but it’s a reminder that even in the most controlled environments, creativity finds a way.

Memes are proof that the aquarium walls, no matter how high, aren’t entirely impenetrable. For every adorable panda article, there’s a Winnie the Pooh meme lurking in the background, quietly reminding us that resistance, however small, is never truly extinguished.

b. Vietnam’s cybersecurity law: scrolling with the state

Now, let’s rewind back to Vietnam, where the government’s mastery over the internet feels less like a Great Firewall and more like an omnipresent lifeguard, constantly monitoring your every digital splash.

So, here’s the thing about Vietnam and internet freedom: if you think you’re gonna be able to hop online, drop a diss against the government like a rapper, good luck. Because the government’s like, “Oh, you thought you were slick?” Boom! Your account’s gone, your internet’s throttled, and now you’re having a conversation with “Uncle Security” about your choices.

Vietnam has built this wild surveillance state where even encrypted chats and anonymous forums are basically myths. The government doesn’t just watch what you do online—they probably know your favorite pho order too. And it’s not a new thing.

Since 2011, organizations like Freedom House have been screaming, “Yo, Vietnam, NOT FREE!” It’s been like that every year. You’d think by 2024, they’d loosen up, but nope.

Oh, and in 2013, when Reporters Without Borders straight-up called Vietnam a “State Enemy of the Internet.” That’s not just a bad Yelp review; it’s like being crowned the supervillain of the digital world. It’s like the internet collectively assembled, “AVENGERS” and said, “Vietnam, you’re Thanos—but instead of snapping your fingers, you’re deleting Facebook posts and throttling Wi-Fi.”

And Vietnam? They’re like, “Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

And then, in 2018, they leveled up. Vietnam passed a cybersecurity law requiring companies to store all user data in Vietnam and delete anything that smells even a little anti-state. Facebook? TikTok? They’re like, “Delete this post,” and the platforms say, “Yes, sir!”

The Cybersecurity Law, enacted in 2019, is a piece of legislation that gives authorities extensive powers to monitor, censor, and even demand data from tech companies operating in the country. On the surface, it’s framed as a way to “ensure national security,” but in reality, it’s a license to scroll through the entire internet like a nosy neighbor with an all-access pass.

Researchers and watchdog groups note that the law capitalizes on the public's collective apathy toward digital privacy. Most people don’t think twice about oversharing their lives, making it almost too easy for the state to keep tabs on its citizens.

This digital indifference stems from the same privacy nihilism found in China, albeit with a more youthful, oversharing twist. Vietnam’s youth are so hyper-online that privacy concerns feel as distant as Y2K.

The government doesn’t need to hide behind complex algorithms or covert operations; they can openly watch as people document every detail of their lives, from food to politics, in a continuous stream of content.

It’s a state-driven surveillance ecosystem where the fish not only swim within aquarium walls but post selfies with those very walls in the background—filtered, captioned, and hashtagged for the world (and the government) to see.

3. consequences of digital privacy nihilism

When you surrender to a system that tracks you relentlessly, the consequences spiral faster than a TikTok trend. We live in a time of digital privacy nihilism, a resignation to mass surveillance so profound that it’s rewiring not just our politics but our economics and activism. It's the new normal—an era where giving up on privacy has evolved from a reluctant compromise into a survival mechanism.

a. the spiral of digital submission

Think of it like this: once digital monitoring becomes normalized, it's not just about watching what you post on Facebook or your WeChat history.

The entire ecosystem spirals into deeper control. Governments no longer need to exert explicit force to keep people in line; they’ve made people want to comply—or at least convinced them it’s the path of least resistance. Researchers call this the “spiral of digital submission,” a cycle where constant monitoring becomes self-reinforcing.

Psychologically, it plays out through a mix of fear and fatalism. If you know your messages, location, and financial transactions are being tracked 24/7, the odds of you organizing a protest online or joining a dissenting group plummet.

Surveillance becomes its own form of soft power, making you think twice before you even draft a post criticizing the government. It’s not just a slippery slope; it’s more like a digital black hole, pulling society’s will to resist deeper and deeper into submission.

b. limited space for digital activism

One of the most insidious consequences of this surveillance state is how it suffocates digital activism. Gone are the days of the Arab Spring optimism, where we believed social media could revolutionize democracy.

In places like China, government control over digital spaces means platforms that were once potential hubs for activism have been neutered. Privacy nihilism dampens the fight before it even begins. How do you organize resistance when you know Big Brother is not just watching but actively taking notes?

Digital spaces that could have incubated grassroots activism have been transformed into echo chambers of compliance, monitored down to the last emoji.

c. the philosophy of resignation

Is this resignation to surveillance a symptom of our digital era, or is it an adaptation for survival?

Have we willingly adapted to this reality because resistance feels futile, or is there something inherently defeatist about our generation's relationship with technology?

This is a question that political theorists and tech ethicists are grappling with. Some argue that privacy nihilism is a modern form of fatalism, a digital-age version of throwing your hands up and accepting fate. Others see it as a calculated survival strategy, especially in authoritarian regimes where speaking out has life-altering consequences.

The reality is probably somewhere in the middle. We’ve learned to live in a surveillance society by convincing ourselves that we have no choice. It’s not that we don’t care about privacy; it’s that the cost of caring has become too high, too cumbersome, too risky.

The question isn’t just whether we can reverse this spiral—it’s whether we even want to. When privacy feels like a lost cause, it’s easier to adapt than to resist. The government aquarium has become our reality, and, like those resigned fish, we’ve made peace with the glass walls—if only because breaking through them seems impossible.

Earlier, we began this journey with a metaphor: imagine you’re a fish who has given up on the idea of escaping the fishing net. Now imagine the ocean has become one giant, government-controlled aquarium.

It’s an image that’s not just poetic—it's prophetic. We’re all swimming in this vast digital ocean, but more and more, it feels like the waters are being controlled by a giant filtration system, its tentacles everywhere.

Whether it’s in China with the Great Firewall, or Vietnam’s ever-tightening surveillance laws, these governments are like the aquarium owners—controlling the flow, the environment, and even the fish.

You.

Me.

Everyone.

The entire digital world is suddenly just another exhibit, neatly curated for those in charge.

But here’s the question: If we are all just fish in this digital aquarium, should we at least start dreaming of oceans again?

The thought is unsettling, isn’t it? A lot of us have been swimming in these tanks for so long that we’ve started to forget what it was like to be in the open sea.

To have unfiltered, unregulated spaces where our thoughts, data, and movements weren't trapped by invisible walls. It almost feels naïve, now, to wish for that freedom. After all, the tank’s pretty cozy, right? It’s safe. Controlled. Predictable. Just like the algorithms that track every click we make.

But cozy doesn’t mean free. It just means we're comfortable being watched. And this, right here, is where the digital privacy nihilism we’ve discussed creeps in. People in China and Vietnam and probably many more, have internalized this system so deeply that the idea of privacy feels almost foreign—like a relic from another time.

And sure, we can argue about the logistics of breaking free from this system—about privacy laws, about activism, about technology. But the harder truth is: freedom is a mindset. If we no longer believe that privacy is a right worth fighting for, then we’ll never escape the aquarium.

So, as we leave you with this last thought: If we are indeed all fish in this digital aquarium, should we at least start dreaming of oceans again? The ones where we can swim freely, without the ever-watchful eyes of the tank’s keeper? Or, better yet, should we be asking: What does it take to break the glass?

Why are we constantly worrying about the future of work™?

If you’re working, you know how it’s done: put in the hours, get the paycheck, put food on the table.

Simple, right? But what if the very nature of how we work is on the chopping block? It’s not just about putting food on that table anymore; it’s about what’s on the menu, how it gets there, and, on those bad days, if there’s even a table left.

So, what’s the future of work is ACTUALLY like?

It’s actually a big debate. And almost everyone is sure that their stories are the right ones.

On one side, you've got tech evangelists promising that AI and automation will free us from our soul-crushing 9-to-5s, giving us more time to explore our passions—like knitting or attempting to become TikTok famous.

On the other side, labor experts are warning that the robots are not our friends. They're here to take our jobs and leave us in a dystopian gig economy, fighting for scraps as "freelance smile consultants."

One study says remote work is the ultimate productivity hack, while another claims it’s turning us into pajama-wearing zombies, destroying team spirit faster than a bad office karaoke session.

So, are we living in a utopia of flexible, AI-enhanced work, or a nightmare where we Zoom our lives away? It depends on who you ask, but either way, buckle up. Here’s the outline of today’s post:

1. the future of work™, according to everyone

2. future of work™ predictions aren’t better than astrology

3. why we love these predictions

4. why are these predictions flawed?

5. how to read the future of work™

1. the future of work™, according to everyone

The future of work is a debate where everyone’s got an opinion—and they’re all very sure they’re super right.

But not everyone agrees on what the future actually holds, and their predictions are more like pieces of a play than concrete roadmaps.

Broadly, we can divide these forecasters into three camps:

the pessimists, the optimists, the skeptics

Think of this the same way you would think we could categorise people’s opinions on astrology.

There are the pessimists, who don’t believe in it, who think it is the cancer of society. There are the optimists, who would think that the pessimists are a bunch of arrogant elite wannabes. And the skeptics, who think both sides are equally fucking crazy.

And to be honest, it would be completely valid if you take the future of work™ as seriously as you would with astrology:

the pessimists

On one end of the spectrum are the pessimists. They don’t see technology as a sidekick but as a villain. For them, automation is spelled D-O-O-M, leading to massive job losses and a future where robots do everything, leaving humans high and dry.

These are the ones sounding the alarm, warning us about an automated apocalypse (Frey & Osborne, 2013).

the optimists

They’re confident that technology will empower us, not replace us. Optimists think AI and automation will free humans from boring, repetitive tasks and let us focus on creative, high-value work.

Picture AI as the perfect personal assistant: it handles the dull stuff, so we get to do the cool, innovative tasks (Raisch & Krakowski, 2020).

the skeptics

Finally, we have the Skeptics. They’re not exactly pro-tech or anti-tech; they’re just... unimpressed.

According to them, all this future-of-work hype is overblown. They argue that despite all the shiny new tech, work will probably look about the same as it does now.

Sure, there’ll be a few new gadgets and tweaks here and there, but the core jobs and industries aren’t going anywhere (Schlogl, Weiss, & Prainsack, 2021). It’s like they’re saying, “We’ve heard this story before, and we’re still waiting for the flying cars.”

But according to a new school of economists, none of these groups are actually making “objective” predictions about the future. Instead, they’re pushing narratives.

That’s right—each group is telling a story, not necessarily about what the future will be, but what they think the future should be. It’s less about forecasting and more about marketing (Beckert & Bronk, 2019).

Future of work predictions tend to follow a simple formula: take a trendy topic (say, artificial intelligence), add a splash of panic (“AI is coming for our jobs!”), sprinkle on some hope (“AI will free us to be more creative!”), and voila—a prediction!

The big themes here include remote work, automation, and gig economy growth. The tech sector might claim that “everyone will be working remotely in the next decade,” while the corporate sector insists that “offices are the future.”

Meanwhile, economists warn of “robotic job replacement,” and policy think tanks chime in with “universal basic income for displaced workers.” It’s the same story, repackaged in multiple flavors of workplace horoscope.

Now, the predictions themselves aren’t all that shocking. They usually include things like:

• Dataism: Data runs everything. Imagine a world where algorithms make work decisions, measuring and optimizing every move you make.

• Exterminism: Mass unemployment, where automation sidelines entire groups of workers. In this scenario, some skills become obsolete, leaving many out of work without enough new jobs to replace the old ones.

• Re/Upskilling: The optimistic counter. Instead of fearing tech, we train people to work with it. It’s the idea that learning new skills will help us adapt and thrive in the changing job market.

• Augmentation: Humans get a tech boost instead of being replaced. Think Iron Man’s suit—technology enhances human capability, so we’re more powerful, not powerless.

• The Singularity: AI gets so advanced it becomes self-improving, possibly outsmarting humans. This could either revolutionize work or, in a worst-case scenario, leave humans redundant.

• Job Destruction: Classic automation story—machines taking over repetitive or low-skill jobs. But this time, the worry is it could spread to higher-skilled roles, with fewer jobs left for people.

• Work Deintensification: The dream that tech will let us work less, not more, giving us more time for creative pursuits and less grind. If automation handles the boring stuff, we get our lives back.

(wow even I have one posts like this)

So why do we keep hearing these? Why are people in tech, policy, business, and academia obsessed with predicting the future of work? Here’s where we get into framing contests—basically, battles over the story of the future.

2. future of work™ predictions aren’t better than astrology

framing contests

To understand this narrative war a little bit better, let me introduce you to the term “framing contest”.

In the context of the future of work, framing contests are like competing blueprints for a skyscraper. Each blueprint proposes a different vision for how the structure—the future workplace—should be designed, organized, and operated.

Just as architects debate over aesthetics, leaders, policymakers, and employees engage in framing contests to determine what the "ideal" workplace should look like.

Government regulators, meanwhile, are like that strict nutritionist in the background, muttering, “What about the nutritional guidelines?” Everyone’s got a different spin on what work should mean, and they’re all using the power of framing to sell their recipe to us, the eager diners.

And there’s evidence that framing matters. A 2020 study by the MIT Sloan School of Management found that organizations with more positive “frames” about remote work saw higher employee satisfaction and productivity.

This is not just good vibes; it’s real. When a company sells the remote work frame as “freedom and flexibility,” employees feel more engaged and happier.

But if they reframe it as “work without boundaries,” it suddenly feels like you're on call 24/7, and employees start burning out faster than you can say “digital detox.”

Here’s where we need to get real. These framing contests—these battles over how we describe work and productivity and all these techno-dystopian visions—are actually deciding the rules of the workplace of tomorrow.

What you hear today about “empowerment through tech” or “digital freedom” is more than just workplace jargon; it’s the script for how work will feel and function in the future. Whether you’ll be scrambling in the kitchen for scraps or dining at the high table depends on who wins these contests.

Each of these “framing contests” tries to shape the story in a way that benefits its own agenda. Take the tech industry, for example. They tend to frame automation as “freeing us from menial tasks” and AI as an “enhancer of human potential.”

The government, meanwhile, might emphasize “re-skilling” and “job creation in new sectors,” hoping you’ll see them as a trusty guide through the jungle of economic disruption. Then there’s academia, claiming that “we need lifelong learning”—spoiler alert: lifelong learning translates to “keep paying for courses.”

When you start seeing these predictions, remember: they’re less about forecasting and more about selling a vision that keeps their own interests intact.

3. why we love these predictions

So, if these predictions are just polished guesses, why do we keep loving them?

Enter narrative subscription—the idea that people buy into a story because it resonates with their beliefs, values, or fears. Just like people subscribe to astrology or personality tests, we “subscribe” to certain narratives about the future of work because they give us a sense of control, direction, and sometimes, hope.

Take, for example, the narrative that “AI will only take over boring, repetitive tasks.” We like this story because it promises us a future where technology doesn’t replace us but instead makes our work more meaningful.

Or the idea that “remote work is the future”—a notion that gives many people the sense of freedom they’re craving in their current jobs. These predictions are packaged in ways that align with what we want or fear, and that’s exactly why we subscribe to them.

And, of course, the experts making these predictions know how to tell a good story. They throw in just enough data, drop names of respected researchers, and wrap it all in fancy jargon, so it sounds credible. For instance, a 2023 McKinsey report or a Deloitte survey adds an air of authority.

But remember, even astrology has its charts and graphs; just because something sounds data-driven doesn’t mean it’s a crystal-clear prophecy of the future.

4. why are these predictions flawed?

Let’s break down why these flashy future-of-work predictions are more flawed than they’d like you to think. Here’s the problem: these predictions rely on some pretty shaky logic. They’re based on what’s called technological determinism—the idea that technology alone will decide our destiny.

But hang on.

Technology may be the show-stopping lead, but it’s not the entire cast. These forecasters act like tech is this unstoppable tidal wave of progress that’s going to flood every job and reshape every industry in its wake. But that’s not how history—or reality—works.

overly deterministic

Alright, let’s talk about one of the biggest blind spots in predicting the future of work: technological determinism.

It’s this fancy way of saying people assume that “hey, this technology will exist in the future; it will automatically change everything.” It’s like a chef looking at a shiny new blender and declaring, “In the future, the blender will have an AI that gave me recipes!” which I really like to believe would be true, but that’s uncertain.

The blender might be useful, but it’s not about to dictate what’s for dinner. Yet that’s exactly the assumption people make with AI, robotics, and automation—they think the mere existence of a new technology means it’ll inevitably take over.

It’s not that simple. Just because AI could become super smart or robots might get cheaper doesn’t mean they’re going to dominate every single job. But we fall into this trap all the time. Remember back in the ‘90s, when we thought the internet would make physical offices disappear, and we’d all be working from beaches by now?

Fast forward, and we’re still tethered to meeting rooms (or Zoom calls, but still, we’re tethered). Or how about self-driving cars? For years, experts were saying they’d be on every road by 2022. Spoiler alert: not only do self-driving cars still have a way to go, but it turns out that rolling them out is far more complex than just teaching a machine to drive.

Let’s take a quick time machine trip back to 2014. Game of Thrones hadn’t yet crushed our hearts with that terrible finale, the Ice Bucket Challenge was flooding everyone’s feed, and people were smashing their screens over Flappy Bird. Simpler times.

The only "AI" most people knew back then was Arnold Schwarzenegger’s metal skeleton in The Terminator. Fast-forward to today, and ChatGPT is one of the top websites in the world. It’s like every other week, we're waking up to some tech revolution we “should’ve seen coming.”

But honestly? We’re not that great at predicting anything.

Remember, the experts who are making predictions about things now didn’t expect AI to be answering your mom’s questions about TikTok dances this soon. Or that you'd be asking it to help you understand why cats hate cucumbers.

The truth is, we keep talking about the future like we have a crystal ball—but, spoiler alert, we’re all just throwing darts in the dark.

second-order chaos

There are two types of predictions:

• predictions that have no effect on what they predict

• predictions that do

Think about your weather forecasts. Rains don’t have TV, so no matter what the predictions are, rains don’t care. It will or will not rain regardless.

The other types of predictions are like stock prices. Someone predicts that “hey, I think the price of stock A will decrease soon.”. If enough people buy into those predictions to panickingly sell out their stocks, the price will actually decrease. The effect happened because of the predictions. This phenomenon is called second-order chaos.

Future of work™ posts are the latter breed of predictions, working like self-fulfilling prophecies. The more we hear that “everyone will be working from home by 2030” or that “AI will take over all repetitive tasks,” the more companies, investors, and policymakers start adjusting their actions to fit that story.

This is known as the prediction paradox—the idea that forecasts don’t just describe the future; they actually start to create it.

Look at the rise of remote work. Back in the day, saying “everyone will work from home” was a fringe prediction, but then COVID-19 hit, and suddenly, companies bought into the story. They invested in remote work technology, restructured their operations, and normalized work-from-home policies. It’s like someone predicting, “We’ll all be eating kale by 2020.”

Enough people start buying kale, and next thing you know, it’s everywhere. Predictions shape behavior, and behavior shapes reality.

This phenomenon is backed by research in psychology and sociology. Studies show that when people believe a trend is coming—whether it’s an economic boom, a job shortage, or a tech takeover—they subconsciously adjust their actions to align with it.

Economist Robert Shiller calls this “narrative economics”: the stories we tell about the economy directly influence how people act within it. So, in other words, these future-of-work predictions are not purely objective—they’re nudging us to make them true.

technology isn’t the only thing affecting the future

Now, let’s talk about what these forecasts miss. Predictions like “AI will take over X% of jobs by 2035” ignore that there are social, economic, and political players in the game, too.

Imagine a sports match where only one team is on the field. That’s the kind of logic we’re dealing with here when predictions focus solely on technology.

For instance, economic incentives matter. If automated tasks aren’t cost-effective, companies won’t do it.

Political regulations matter, too. Just because an AI can do a job doesn’t mean it will if there’s legislation preventing it.

Cultural values also play a huge role—like how in-person work remains important in many sectors, regardless of how advanced remote work tools get. The future of work is a multi-player game, not a solo act by tech.

5. how to read the future of work™

Alright, so we’ve established that a lot of the “future of work” predictions are mostly marketing in disguise. Now, the million-dollar question is: What do we actually do about it?

How do we separate fact from fluff and figure out what the future of work might actually look like, so we can make informed choices instead of getting sold another AI-powered pipe dream? Well, we’re going to need to change the way we read these predictions.

step 1: “who’s writing this and why?”

• step 2: look for the stories before the stats.

• step 3: beware of the common traps.

• step 4: keep an eye on “narrative subscription.”

• step 5: spot the gaps in the prediction cycle.

step 1: “who’s writing this and why?”

Let’s start with the basics: anytime you read some bold vision about the future of work, ask yourself: Who’s writing this and why?

Predictions are rarely neutral. Imagine a reality TV producer trying to pitch their next season. They’ll tell you this is going to be the most dramatic, most explosive season yet. And sure, maybe they’re telling the truth—or maybe they just need you to tune in so they can keep their ratings high.

The same logic applies to predictions about work. A company selling remote-work software will paint a future where everyone’s working from hammocks in Bali. A recruitment firm might warn of dire “talent shortages” because they want businesses to hire more aggressively—often through them, of course.

So, the next time you see a flashy “10 predictions for 2030” headline, read it not just as “What’s going to happen,” but as “What does this author want me to believe?”

step 2: look for the stories before the stats.

Pay attention to the story behind the predictions, not just the statistics.

Numbers are easy to manipulate, but stories? Those require a little more work to sell. And believe it or not, the story a forecaster tells you often reveals more about their agenda than their data.

Take, for instance, the buzz around automation. A study comes out saying that “40% of jobs could be automated by 2030,” and suddenly we’re seeing headlines that sound apocalyptic.

But ask yourself: What’s the story here? Is the prediction grounded in real-world evidence, or is it designed to stoke fear and generate clicks? Often, these stats are cherry-picked to fit a narrative of unstoppable change, even if reality is far more nuanced.

Economists like Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky have explored this concept through narrative economics—the idea that stories about the economy influence how people behave in it.

When we read about impending automation, we’re being told a story about urgency, change, and inevitability. By seeing through the story, we can decide whether or not we really believe it—or if it’s just hype.

step 3: beware of the common traps.

Another common trick in the world of work predictions is the idea of determinism—this notion that the future is already written and that technological advancements are an unstoppable force marching us forward.

It’s the idea that “AI is coming for your job, whether you like it or not.” But the truth is, technology isn’t destiny. It’s one piece of a larger puzzle that includes economic conditions, politics, and social preferences.

So, when a headline claims “The Robots Are Coming,” remember: it’s a framing contest. They want you to believe in the future as destiny so that you feel pressured to “adapt” or get left behind. But history has shown us that people push back. Just because a technology can do something doesn’t mean we’ll let it.

step 4: keep an eye on “narrative subscription.”

Another reason we fall for flashy predictions? Narrative subscription. It’s why some people are way into the idea of a remote-work revolution—they want to escape the office and believe this narrative is their ticket out.

Think of it as “confirmation bias for the future”: we believe in the predictions that make us feel seen or validated. So, when reading about the future of work, ask yourself: Is this prediction actually plausible, or am I just buying into it because it feels right?

The tech industry is particularly good at exploiting this. They craft predictions to make you believe in a future that aligns with their products. Are you scared of missing out?

No problem—they’ve got the solution. Feeling excited about flexibility? They have the tools for that too. It’s less about reality and more about tailoring a story to fit your worldview.

step 5: spot the gaps in the prediction cycle.

Finally, recognize that most predictions follow a predictable cycle. First, a new technology is announced with a lot of hype, and experts make big, sweeping predictions.

Then, once the technology rolls out, we get the inevitable reality check: the tech works, but it’s not as transformative as promised. And finally, the hype subsides until the next big thing comes along.

This cycle isn’t just for tech—it applies to almost any prediction-driven industry. Sociologist Neil Postman wrote extensively on this in the 1980s, noting that we tend to cycle through “technological enthusiasms” that later fade when the new tech fails to meet expectations.

So, don’t get caught in the hype loop. Recognize that predictions are part of a marketing cycle. By spotting the gaps in these cycles, you can avoid the trap of thinking, “This time, it’s different.” Spoiler: It usually isn’t.

At the end of the day, the future of work isn’t a fixed destiny—it’s an ongoing project shaped by us, not just the latest gadget. These predictions try to paint a certain future as inevitable, but reality is much more flexible than that.

We can push for policies that protect workers, encourage sustainable practices, and ensure technology serves people—not the other way around.

So the next time you read about the “future of work,” take a step back. Ask who’s behind the prediction, what their agenda might be, and whether the story resonates with you—or if you’re just being sold another shiny vision.

Because while these predictions might be wrapped up in data and trend forecasts, at the end of the day, they’re still just stories. And just like with any story, the future of work is only as real as we make it.

If you’re going to take anything away from this blog post, let it be this: be wary of headlines that promise,

“Here are the technologies that will change the future of [fill in the blank].”

whether it’s work, climate, or education.

No single piece of technology will ever transform these areas in isolation. Every innovation, if it succeeds, operates within a complex web of influences—economics, politics, culture, and probably a million other factors.

Trust your instincts. Trust what you want to trust. But remember: context is everything.

A THOUSAND human beings have voluntarily signed up to read my thoughts.

I mean, I get it if you clicked “subscribe” by accident but you didn’t have to stay. No, I’m just kidding; please stay.

I think that let’s relax for a week and forget about the usual long-ass-form analytical posts. If you have some reading to catch up, here’s your chance.

This week, I want to share with you a little bit of my writing journey, how it happened, what’s happening, and what’s more to come. And probably some tips.

Why do I write this? Well, one reason was that my memory is already really bad and I need to write down something before all these memories are wiped out of my mind. Another reason was that 1000 subscribers are too beautiful to not write something about (the next time is probably only when 10,000). Also, this is the alternate about page.

how it happened

I didn’t have a calling to be a blogger. Unlike every motivational origin stories of someone-crazy-popular, I don’t have a specific day that I just wake up and decide,

“hey I want to be a blogger in the next 10 years.”

No, I wish that I had that kind of day.

I started blogging as a part of a 30-day blogging challenge in Writing on the Net. It was something I started to do because my friends were also doing it.

But because I did it because of my intense fear of missing out, when the challenge ends, the FOMO ends, and also my writing habits, at least at that point, I enter a break for who knows how long at that point.

I kept on writing sporadically after the challenge, but without that initial momentum and urgency of everyone around me being excited and engaged, my motivation just couldn’t sustain itself. That’s when a year-long writing pause appeared, turning my blog into another abandoned corner of the internet.

You see, during that hiatus, writing didn’t feel like an urgent need. The idea of returning was always there, but without a compelling reason, it was easy to keep postponing.

Then something shifted. After a year of my blog being in stasis, I decided to write again—for challenges again, #vietdenchet and #vietdeuvahay, but this time not because of fear of missing out, but because I wanted to explore my own ideas.

Over the next 30 weeks, I committed fully, and that’s when I saw an upward curve in my subscribers, as shown in the graph below. (why does this sound like an IELTS writing task?) The numbers grew gradually, and my motivation turned inward. This time, writing wasn't just about participation. It became a habit, a genuine pursuit rather than an obligation.

I didn’t start this blogging with a 5-year plan for it as if it would save me from national famine. I started this blog almost for no reason and tried blogging for long enough that I actually know what I can do with it. Crazy how that works.

what did this blogging journey lead me to? (bragging section)

• My first talk on blogging 101 so that I knew people would care about my writing journey.

  Recording is here if you’re curious.

  

• My very first donations so that I know that I know this is valuable enough.

  

• A few top stories on other platforms.

  

• A few compliments.

  

• A few obviously-not-compliments

  

• Got recommended by 31 bloggers. Kudos to , , , , , , and so many others so that I know there are fellow writers who trust in what I put out there.

• 1000 people that are willing to hear me talk so that I know my works are valuable for at least a school full of people.

• Many, many cool hangouts with other writers so that I know I’m not alone.

  

  I think it’s safe to say that I wouldn’t have continued to do this if I were alone. I was never alone. I had help. I had people who believed in me and my stuff. That’s one thing that I will forever appreciate in this journey.

what do people like the most at this point?

1.

This is my most popular piece yet.

So, about a month into using Threads, I had this moment: “Oh crap, it’s just as toxic as Twitter.” I mean, I really thought Threads might be different, but nope.

I went on a little mission to see if anyone else had analyzed this platform’s vibe, but most articles stopped at 2023 when Threads first launched. Western media didn’t think it was a big enough deal (Threads is not as popular), and in Vietnam, analytical writing isn’t exactly booming.

So, I figured I would write my own take on it. And it blew up. A lot of people relate to what I’ve got to say. If you’re new here, that post is definitely one I’d recommend checking out.

This post’s idea comes when people in Vietnam are arguing over whether a child influencer here is exploited by their parents. I again found no posts expanding on the subject, except those that are highly contextual, like talking about Ryan’s World (I have one myself).

So I decided to write one. With my takes on it. (Halfway through writing this, I realise I might have too many things to say about everything.)

3.

This is the last one. This post is dedicated to the community of Học Cách Học, which was by chị and Mở. The topic was kind of set “how technology is affecting education.” I only have to find my angles on it.

I think that there might have been too many posts about what skills you should still learn in spite of AI, not that many posts about what skills you should not learn because of AI, so I write it.

To sum up my learnings on how to write these things, I think that I enjoy writing from new angles about popular things.

1000 things I learned before my 1000th subscriber

To make this blog valuable for your time, here are 1000 things that I learned before my 1000th subscribers

1. Read a lot. Like really a lot.

   I have seen almost no writers who put out quality work that doesn’t read a lot. Reading means a lot of things; you don’t have to shove your face between paper pages to be legitimately called you’re reading; it can be your kindle, your laptop, your phone, practically anything that can display digital black worms on it.

   I would categorise my reading in service of blogging into two categories: 1) reading for research 2) reading other bloggers.

   Reading for research means that I need to open 100 tabs on my browser, reading research about the blog topic that I chose in hopes that I come up with a good enough outline before I crack down in tears. Reading other bloggers means that I need to discover elements that I like about a blog, which other bloggers might or might not have been doing, and be decent enough to make it my own thing.

2. Consistency is the only thing you should care about as a new writer. Viral is good, but in the long run, a few viral posts will only take you a little bit faster. But to keep going, you have to keep pushing out stuff.

   Being consistent solves so many problems for you as a new writer. It helps you feel less insecure when you push your stuff outside. It helps you build habits to produce content. It helps you improve your skills. It helps you have an archive full of works ready to show everyone who asked.

   There’s a lot of things that I do managing this blog besides just writing and publishing. But without writing and publishing, without having this archive of works to show people, there’s no way for this blog to go any further than being my open journal.

   Unless you’re crazy popular, like world-level, then consistency is not that important, but if you’re world-level, why are you reading this?

3. No one cares about your blog that much—except you. “I wonder what Duy’s writing this week,” said literally no one. Your readers are very likely to spend weeks—even months—not even remembering who you are.

   I love Tim Urban and his works, but I spent literally no time thinking about him except for when he has new posts or when I need to find some inspiration from him.

   This is good because you can stop worrying about every tiny detail about your blog(s) and start experimenting the heck out of it. Post at midnight. Start drawing for it. Write a poem. No one cares. Don’t worry about it too much. Do what you want with it.

4. The most insane thing you can do as a writer is to not make friends with other writers. I mean, it’s terrifying when you create something new and you’re on your own. But you’re not. There’re a lot of writers who are trying to do the same things as you.

   I think one key difference in why I can write for such a long period this time compared to one year ago was that I have a much stronger community this time. It’s like when you’re going on a path and you’re seeing no one’s around you; it’s hard not to start wondering if you’re lost.

   So you shouldn’t suffer this alone. Reach out to writers that you like. Do collabs (doing one with next week). Sharing your ideas. I have friends who listen to things that I’m sure they would not care about if I was not sharing with them, and that alone helped me a lot, especially mentally.

5. Learn to promote your stuff. No one is going to do it for you. If you mainly operate on Substack, Medium, or Wordpress, open one or two social media sites to tell the world that you exist. Repurpose your content. Learn how to do SEO. Essentially, learn how to get your blog discovered.

6. Don’t form strong opinions about something until you’ve tried it.

   What I mean is that there are things you take as facts that are not actually factual at all. Especially about yourself and about your writing.

   I was not a particularly good kid in Vietnamese literature in my high school. Because I spent years being told by pRoFeSsIoNaLs that I suck at writing in Vietnamese, I truly believe so.

   And because I sucked at writing in Vietnamese, I must suck at writing a blog in my own mother tongue. But I was very glad to find out that it was not neccessarily true. My guest posts for Mở performed exceptionally well for some reasons.

   That doesn’t mean that now I write really well in Vietnamese, but rather that if one day I write another piece in one, that’s not the end of the world.

7. Update old content. Don’t treat your posts as consumables. Posted and done. Treat it like assets. Regularly update it to match the current events and repost it to your audience.

8. Back up. Back up. Back up. Learn how to back up your blog data. That includes things like your email list, your posts, your drafts, and one million other things. Don’t trust platforms, especially when it’s not your own. Own things that you have worked so hard for.

9. Learn how to correctly be a perfectionist.

   This piece of advice doesn’t apply if you haven’t written AND published at least 30 posts.

   For a long time, people have hated the word “perfectionist” for obvious reasons. However, I argue that you have to be a somewhat perfectionist to actually put out quality work. If you feel like something isn’t working out, start over, try a new approach, and keep experimenting until something fits just right.

   It is a painful process. But each time you do it, each time you become a better writer. That is mainly how I learn how to write. And I believe it can work for you too.

10. to 1000.

    Ok, I actually lied. I couldn’t think of 1000 pieces of advice to tell you right now.

    

    But you can ask for them yourself. If you have any problems, questions, or just want to share your writing journey, or seriously any journey, you can always send a message to me. Promise that I’ll reply.

what’s the end goal of the frog society?

Right now, I have no idea. But I think that the fact that the blog is developing will open up a lot of exciting possibilities in the future, like talks, like collabs. And I like doing exciting things.

For now, I will try to put out stuff with the best quality that I can, making my current audience collectively wow, and reaching people that don’t know about me yet but will love what I’m doing.

If you love or hate me or my posts enough, I would really like if you can let me know in this feedback form.

Feedback Form

Wow this blog just hit 1k subscribers. It's crazy because I don't actually think I will reach this milestone before I give up on writing.

I'm extremely grateful for everyone who has decided that my stuff is actually worth reading and decide to sub.

Thank for your generous donations. Love you :)

Estimated reading time: 24 minutes

Disclaimer: This post includes discussions and images related to adult content, including pornography. This material is intended for mature audiences only, and may not be suitable for younger readers. In other words, kids, shoo.

In Vietnam, if you’re craving a cappuccino, good luck—Starbucks might take a bit of hunting. Unless you live in a big city, then congratulations.

But if it's porn you’re after?

Practically delivered to your doorstep. It might already be there, on your phone.

It’s a situation where one kind of indulgence is way better supplied than the other. Strange, isn’t it? Somehow, streaming explicit material has outpaced a global coffee empire.

While there’s no official badge for being a "top viewer," Pornhub data shows Vietnamese users, like many others, have ditched desktops for smartphones, making the experience a bit like fast food: quick, convenient, and typically consumed in solitude.

Now, is everyone addicted? Not quite. Of course, that depends on your definition of addiction. But, let’s try to reach a consensus definition of addiction:

"Addiction is when a person can’t stop doing something, even if it causes harm."

— National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA)

Addiction implies a compulsive, uncontrollable need, like people on threads’s inability to refrain from saying dumb shits.

Most data points to porn consumption being episodic, not pathological. Think of it like binge-watching Netflix: just because you spent your Sunday with a season of “Breaking Bad” doesn’t mean you need an intervention.

On average, visits last only about 10 minutes—barely enough time to boil an egg or survive the awkwardness of buffering.

Culturally, however, the conversation is coated with taboo.

On the one hand, pornography is readily accessible; on the other, it’s too accessible. I am not saying that people should not have access to porn at all, but not every type of porn out there should be accessible. You probably can guess what I’m talking about.

It’s the same dilemma: everyone knows it’s happening, but no one wants to admit it, because acknowledging it feels like violating some unspoken social contract.

This tension makes any nuanced discussion difficult, driving media discourse toward moral panic. Yet, as Vietnam’s population becomes more digitally literate, the topic increasingly creeps into public forums, hinting at a shift from "We don’t talk about that" to "Let’s at least Google it"—in incognito mode, naturally.

1. your mom’s opinions about porn

2. in Vietnam, porn is better served than McDonalds

3. the pornography problem

4. everything is fair game

5. why Vietnam banning porn is still a good idea

1. your mom’s opinions about porn

In Vietnam, pornography sits awkwardly between public outrage and private indulgence. Celebrity sex scandals and leaked videos routinely ignite national scandals, dragging people through the mud for doing, well, what many do behind closed doors.

It’s a contradiction—public shame masks private consumption, reflecting a deep-rooted clash between conservative family values and the realities of modern curiosity. Porn becomes the forbidden fruit: everyone takes a bite, but no one admits it.

This silent indulgence is fueled, in part, by the lack of sexual education. Conversations about sex are usually avoided at home and in schools, leaving people to rely on pornography as an unofficial guide to intimacy.

It’s like trying to learn to make a functional rocket by watching YouTube videos—you're bound to get some things wildly wrong and with heavy prices to pay. Without proper conversations, porn fills the gaps, but often with misleading expectations that can distort ideas about relationships and intimacy.

Interestingly both coffee and porn reflect forms of personal escape. Coffee helps people push through long days, while porn offers brief relief from loneliness or stress at night.

But while sipping a cappuccino in public comes with no judgment, indulging in adult content remains an unspoken habit wrapped in guilt. The emotional hangover that follows—whether from overstimulation or societal shame—lingers in silence, with few spaces to discuss the reasons behind it.

The Vietnamese government enforces strict censorship on porn, framing it as a way to protect public morality. But these efforts often feel more like symbolic gestures than real solutions. VPNs and other workarounds are so common that blocking access seems as futile as trying to ban coffee to curb caffeine addiction.

As long as the underlying demand exists, restrictions merely brush over the issue without addressing the root causes—namely, repression, loneliness, and the lack of open conversations about sex and mental health.

In the end, Vietnam’s uneasy relationship with pornography reveals more than just the appetite for adult content. It exposes deeper tensions between tradition and modernity, between shame and curiosity.

Like an unsatisfying shot of espresso, porn offers fleeting relief but leaves behind a bitter aftertaste—one that can only be softened by the kind of honest dialogue society isn’t quite ready to have.

2. in Vietnam, porn is better served than Starbucks

In Vietnam, the consumption of pornography manifests in various forms, each catering to distinct preferences and motivations.

Before the internet era, access to adult content in Vietnam was significantly limited and was mostly restricted by cultural norms and government regulations. Vietnamese people didn't generally have widespread access to pornographic magazines or printed materials.

Instead, adult content, if consumed at all, was more often shared in underground or informal ways, sometimes through word of mouth, coded language, or illicitly imported media.

Access to such material was quite rare, and there was a much stronger emphasis on social modesty and traditional views on sexuality that discouraged open consumption of explicit content. It was only with the advent of the internet and digital media that access to adult content became more common in Vietnam.

These publications were usually circulated discreetly due to societal taboos surrounding sexuality. VCDs and tapes containing adult films also gained popularity, particularly in the 1990s, offering another avenue for consumption.

In both cases, the experience was marked by secrecy, as discussing or admitting to such interests was often considered socially unacceptable, creating a complex relationship with sexual content that persists even today.

The arrival of the internet dramatically shifted how pornography is accessed in Vietnam, transforming it from a hidden indulgence into an easily accessible, though still discreet, pastime. Over time, as people get more comfortable using the Internet, they are more comfortable dividing their porn consumption into different methods. Each method offers unique values for everyone, from the casual watcher to the hardcore enthusiast:

a) Mainstream platforms: convenience.

b) Subscription services: exclusivity.

c) Niche forums: specific interests.

d) Hidden networks: complete anonymity.

a) mainstream platforms

Mainstream platforms like Pornhub and XVideos dominate the digital landscape, not simply due to their extensive libraries but because they cater to the modern consumer's insatiable appetite for immediate gratification.

Before officially being banned in Vietnam, Xvideos and Pornhub were always on the list of most-accessed websites in Vietnam.

Think of them as the YouTube of adult content; they work the same, they have the same mechanics, and you can subscribe to porn channels like how you subscribe to your favourite YouTubers. Johnny Sins, one of the biggest pornstars ever in the world, is practically the Mr. Beast of porn.

Platforms like Pornhub offer a veritable buffet of videos ranging from the amateurish charm of homemade clips to the slick professionalism of big-budget productions.

For the casual user seeking a momentary escape—perhaps after a grueling day of trying to comprehend quantum mechanics—these sites provide a convenient solution.

Accessibility is key; with just a few clicks, users can dive into a sea of options, much like a physicist unraveling the mysteries of the universe through multiple hypotheses.

However, this convenience comes with a paradox: while users enjoy the anonymity of online viewing, the societal stigma surrounding porn consumption remains as palpable as a cloud of heavy mist on a humid day.

It creates an intriguing dichotomy, where one can indulge in pleasures behind closed screens yet feel a nagging sense of guilt lurking in the shadows, as if caught sneaking a cookie before dinner.

These platforms cater to a broad set of audiences, ensuring that virtually anyone can find something that piques their interest—be it a niche genre or a popular trend. This vastness invites a form of escapism, allowing users to explore their fantasies without the confines of traditional societal norms.

However, one must consider the potential implications of such unfettered access. While they’re pretending to discourage children under 18 to enter their sites, they practically swing their door open for everyone who has Internet access.

b) subscription services

In stark contrast to mainstream platforms, subscription services like OnlyFans and Fansly cultivate an experience that can only be described as intimate, akin to stepping into an exclusive members-only club where everyone knows your name—except, of course, your name is often concealed behind a clever pseudonym.

Here, users don’t merely consume content; they engage in a two-way interaction with creators, forging connections that can feel surprisingly personal.

One of the core features of OnlyFans is the ability that allows creators to directly message their subscribers and thus are able to send pay-per-view (PPV) content directly to their subscribers’ inbox. Often with inviting voices—to invite the subscribers to pay.

This shift from passive consumption to active participation resembles the evolution from a mere audience member in a concert to a devoted fan who receives backstage access—the sweaty embrace and the scent of stale beer are optional.

The allure of platforms like OnlyFans lies in their ability to cater to exclusivity that mainstream sites might entirely overlook, appealing to specific fantasies or interests that deserve their moment in the spotlight.

This exclusivity creates a sense of privilege among subscribers, who may feel as if they've stumbled upon a community of sorts where their desires are understood and catered to.

Moreover, the potential for interaction further deepens the subscriber experience, allowing for comments, messages, and even custom requests. This dynamic elevates the content from mere viewing to a collaborative experience, where fans can feel a sense of ownership over the material produced.

Selling nudes on OnlyFans has become such a wildly successful and profitable industry that it has spawned its own genre of talent management, with companies emerging to handle everything from marketing to content production, much like the agencies that manage K-pop idols.

Based in Los Angeles, Unruly has become prominent for managing high-profile OnlyFans creators, offering services in branding, social media strategy, and content management.

These OnlyFans management firms promise to elevate their clients’ profiles, handling daily interactions, follower engagement, and creative direction—all to maximize subscriber growth and, ultimately, earnings.

Just like K-pop idols are meticulously crafted to appeal to fans, OnlyFans creators are now being coached on how to maintain an “exclusive” online presence, cultivate loyal audiences, and refine their brand.

In an ironic twist, these creators, initially drawn by the platform’s promise of independence, often find themselves in contracts and under management as if they were part of a digital entertainment agency, underscoring how the allure of fame and money has restructured the platform from an indie content haven into a full-fledged, monetized industry.

Porn really have a grip on people.

c) niche forums

As we dive even deeper into the intricate world of adult content consumption, niche forums and communities present intriguing spaces for users to explore specific fetishes and kinks often overlooked by mainstream platforms.

These forums serve as secret societies, offering a sense of belonging for those with similar interests, transforming solitary consumption into a vibrant, community-driven experience filled with shared stories and advice. Imagine Diddy’s Freak Offs, but in the form of group chats. It is as horrific as your imagination allows it to be.

However, beneath this facade lies a darker reality.

In Vietnam, China, and many other Asian countries, there are dedicated Telegram groups that facilitate the sharing of leaked materials, including revenge porn, non-consensual content, and child abuse material.

Laucua is, by all appearances, a thriving online community with over 600,000 members—its purpose? To foster the distribution of leaked adult content and revenge porn, proving that not all “large followings” are worth celebrating.

As one of Vietnam’s most well-known Telegram groups, Laucua has found a niche in serving explicit content sourced directly from hacked accounts, personal devices, and moments never intended for public consumption.

Here, group members trade in stolen private moments and weaponized recordings, all conveniently hidden under the cloak of digital anonymity.

For those unfamiliar with revenge porn, it’s a noble pursuit: scorned exes and overzealous hackers alike upload private, explicit videos of individuals, often as a highly unethical form of payback.

Laucua doesn’t discriminate. Whether it’s a video intended for a paying audience or a personal clip shared only between partners, it all becomes part of the community effort to democratize humiliation.

Laucua is an online ecosystem that thrives on personal violation. Telegram’s encrypted nature provides the perfect haven for this, keeping things under wraps and far from the prying eyes of law enforcement. As the group’s notoriety grows, it underscores a larger issue—just because it’s labeled “private” doesn’t mean it’s secure.

In fact, Laucua seems to thrive by proving that, online, nothing truly is.

And for the victims? Their lives are forever entangled in a social experiment where the line between privacy and “content” is crossed with each click, forward, and download, all in the name of community-building—though in this case, community might be a stretch.

And this is not an exclusive problem of this one particular group. There are hundreds, even thousands, of groups out there that are probably only worse. And it is not an exclusive problem coming from Asians at all. In fact, it is a systematic problem, an effect coming from human limitless thirst and lust.

You are likely to find this type of forums in all platforms: Facebook, Instagram, Discord, Zalo, etc.

In our digital age, we must confront the implications of such environments. As the boundaries between consent and violation blur in this unregulated landscape, it becomes crucial to promote healthier interactions within these communities.

The challenge remains: how can we allow freedom of exploration while upholding respect and consent? Much like deciphering the complexities of quantum mechanics, the answers are layered, nuanced, and riddled with ethical dilemmas.

d) hidden networks

The dark web is a part of the internet that isn’t indexed by standard search engines and requires special software, like the Tor browser, to access.

It exists within the “deep web,” which includes all non-public internet content (such as private databases and behind-password pages).

The dark web is often associated with anonymous browsing and is used for a variety of purposes, some legitimate (like protecting privacy or bypassing censorship) and some illicit (like illegal marketplaces or forums). Because it provides enhanced anonymity, it's both a haven for privacy-conscious users and a hub for illegal activities.

The dark web provides an environment where illegal content, such as child pornography, proliferates due to its anonymity and the use of peer-to-peer (P2P) networks.

Platforms on the dark web like “Welcome to Video” have monetized child sexual abuse by offering videos for sale using cryptocurrency, which complicates tracking financial flows.

Global operations have exposed how these sites operate, often hosting hundreds of thousands of videos and reaching international audiences across 38 countries.

In response to this alarming issue, international law enforcement agencies, including the FBI and the UK’s National Crime Agency (NCA), have coordinated to take down such sites and arrest hundreds of offenders.

For example, the bust of “Welcome to Video” in 2019 led to the arrests of 337 individuals globally and the conviction of offenders involved in some of the most severe forms of abuse.

This collaborative crackdown highlights the immense challenge of policing these platforms, as the dark web relies on encrypted networks and cryptocurrencies to evade detection.

Unfortunately, the ability to remain anonymous on the dark web makes it a haven for individuals seeking to engage in illicit activities, showing a stark divide between everyday online behaviors and the dangerous activities thriving in hidden networks

This division in consumption methods reveals the unique appeal of each platform and community.

• Mainstream sites offer convenience.

• Subscription services provide exclusivity.

• Niche forums foster community around specific interests.

• Hidden networks grant complete anonymity.

Together, these channels reflect a complex landscape where personal desires intersect with societal norms, illustrating the broader struggle between public indulgence and private shame in the realm of sexuality.

3. the pornography problem

Under the polished facade of the adult entertainment industry, performers often find themselves navigating precarious work conditions.

Much like gig workers on rideshare apps, they face fluctuating pay, lack of healthcare, and minimal labor protections—except in this case, the stakes involve far more than missing a delivery window.

Performers are frequently coerced into acts beyond their original agreement under the threat of financial penalties or blacklisting from studios.

Control over their content, including residual profits, is another distant fantasy—much like imagining that Leonard will someday understand Sheldon’s obsession with string theory.

Even the emergence of ethical alternatives like feminist and fair-trade porn hasn't solved these challenges. These models advocate for better working conditions and performer autonomy, yet they struggle to compete with mainstream platforms that profit from pirated content and exploitative labor practices.

For now, the porn industry remains an unregulated gig economy where performers are left with few resources or protections if mistreated.

This precarious ecosystem extends beyond performers, contributing to larger societal problems.

a) the default educator of sex

Compounding these labor issues is pornography's unintended role as an informal sex educator. With comprehensive sex education still absent in many places, young people are left to fill the gaps with what they see on screen.

However, relying on porn for education is like learning astrophysics from Star Wars—there’s entertainment value, but the substance leaves much to be desired.

Mainstream porn tends to emphasize unrealistic portrayals of sex, reinforcing problematic ideas such as male dominance and female submission. This leads to warped expectations in real-life relationships, where intimacy becomes transactional rather than mutual.

Beyond individual behavior, this miseducation feeds into broader cultural narratives that normalize objectification and misogyny. Without counterbalancing guidance, viewers—particularly young men—are at risk of internalizing unhealthy notions of gender roles and consent.

Social isolation exacerbates the issue; the more individuals rely on porn for intimacy, the more they disengage from meaningful connections in real life.

This vicious cycle reflects a systemic failure: the lack of proper education leaves a vacuum that pornography eagerly fills but in ways that perpetuate misunderstanding rather than enlightenment.

b) non-consensual porn and child abuse material

The ethical breaches of the porn industry don’t stop at exploitation and misinformation; non-consensual content represents one of its gravest offenses.

Revenge porn—a form of digital abuse where intimate content is shared without consent—weaponizes trust and creates profound psychological trauma for victims.

Once these videos circulate, victims often experience social ostracism, harassment, and, in severe cases, contemplate or commit suicide. Legal responses remain sluggish, with many platforms dragging their feet on taking down harmful content, further compounding the damage.

Child sexual abuse material (CSAM), which falls under criminal rather than merely unethical behavior, reveals an even darker side of this ecosystem. The circulation of CSAM online not only exploits minors but also reflects a profound failure of both regulation and platform accountability.

There are 175,000 searches for sexual images on Pornhub that trigger child abuse checks every month in the UK alone, according to data provided by a chatbot developed by the platform.