To me, the Internet used to feel like an entirely new world to explore. A world I first uncovered around ’95, the first time I browsed the web, a moment that felt truly magical. Quickly I discovered it was a place where people came to share, build and connect within a vast, messy, and inviting web of interconnected neighborhoods.
Back then the Internet was thought without “leadership” and content without a “strategy”. It was a space where not everything was optimized for clicks or engineered solely as engagement bait. It wasn’t just a tool for building personal brands or side hustles; it was a place to co-exist and explore, to stumble upon communities and conversations that could inspire or surprise you. The Internet didn’t feel like a product, nor did it make you feel like you were the product. It felt more like a new land you could travel and build in, a place to have fun and experiment.
The transition from what it was to what it is now happened incrementally, wrapped in a warm blanket of quality-of-life improvements carefully woven by post-dotcom bubble startups. Startups that promised us a better world for the many but delivered mostly a better world for the few, with just enough scraps of convenience for the rest.
It’s like our cozy neighborhood was gentrified, stripped of its quirks, commodified, and transformed into an algorithmic black hole and engagement-bait minefield that now makes me feel like my brain is constantly exploding and suffocating at the same time. What once felt unspoiled and infinite now feels like being stuck inside a party balloon: it gives way up to a certain point, then snaps you back into place just when you think you can make it pop, all the while you see a faint, blurred hint of what’s out there. Perhaps this is inevitable in a capitalist world obsessed with growth—or maybe I’m just getting old—but the Internet has become a weird and unfamiliar place for me. And although it’s not all doom and gloom because there are still pockets of hope and community if you care to look for them. They just feel few and far between. And maybe worse—because the web is infinite, we somehow lost the capacity to explore and build anymore. Currently the internet is designed in a way to keep you distracted, not looking for new frontiers.
I started writing this mostly as a reflection for myself: to think about what the Internet was, is, and means to me, but it also turned into an investigation. Into whether there’s still hope for it, or if I should slowly try to abandon it entirely.
Of course I’m well aware that all that growth and the maturing of the internet also made our lives easier and better in many ways—mine included. All these new technologies have come with exciting opportunities, and sometimes I even get the feeling back of the old fun days, like how, with AI copilots now, I’ve gotten back into tinkering with websites again. It’s only sad that it’s built mostly on closed systems controlled by a few large companies.
I wouldn’t be who I am today without the technological advancements that came with the maturing of the Internet, but this nagging feeling keeps coming back: did we lose too much in the process? Maybe the transformation of the Internet from a sprawling commons of creativity to a tightly controlled commercial ecosystem came at a cost higher than we might yet realize.
The early days compared to now
In the early days of the Internet, there were no detailed roadmaps, no playbooks, and no algorithms nudging you toward what to click next. Being online felt like exploring the frontier—chaotic, unpredictable, and full of wonder. Online communities sprang up like little towns, tended to and governed by hobbyists and enthusiasts. These weren’t spaces optimized for revenue or engineered to keep you scrolling; they were simply places to connect over shared interests, passions, and ideas. They were more ethereal than the platforms we use now. Fragile but alive, ready to dissolve, be abandoned, or rebooted at a moment’s notice.
It was in this world that I built my first personal website in 1996. The site was nothing special—just a collection of my favorite music, coded in Notepad if I remembered correctly, and later, a Matrix fan page built in Microsoft FrontPage. It had animated gifs of Neo dodging bullets and the iconic green letters cascading down the screen. It wasn’t anything remarkable in the grand scheme of things, but to me, it felt monumental. I was contributing to this vast, uncharted digital landscape, and, more importantly, I was connecting with others over shared interests. And while my parents worried that I wasn’t being social because I was always on the computer, in reality, I had joined forums, made loads of friends, and learned so, so much. In many ways, those spaces gave me the education that would help me thrive in my career in design and advertising later on. Not only the hard skills, but also the soft skills. It’s actually surprising how similar managing a team in the corporate world is to managing a gaming guild.
But do I have this feeling because the internet has changed, or because I have? Am I just the old man yelling at clouds? Maybe so. What changed then? Back then there was drama, fun, and everything in between, just like we have now. But I think an important differentiator is that it was our drama, our fun, our everything in between. It wasn’t artificially directed to trigger more discussion and capitalize on polarization. There was a sense of ownership in it—a feeling that we’ve lost along the way. I think this transition didn’t just rob us of our agency; it also robbed us of a bit of humanity toward one another, and the wonder of exploring and building things yourself.
And yes, this might sound like a lot of complaining from someone who makes his money designing and marketing things to, let’s face it, sell more stuff. But it’s also the hand I’ve been dealt—a fun one at that—and the world we live in. In the end we’re all just trying to survive and everyone has to decide for themselves where to draw the line. In many ways, life has become much more convenient thanks to technological advancements. Take Spotify, for example. You always have fresh new tracks at your fingertips, without ever having to dig for them. Although, inevitably, everyone gets served Limerence by Yves Tumor at some point.
Before Spotify, you had to search deep and wide to find new music. And sometimes, you didn’t find what you were looking for. But in that journey, you stumbled upon all kinds of unexpected sounds, and, in the end, you got to experience something new. It’s the journey that mattered. And yes that is cliche but I guess cliches are cliches for a reason.
The instant gratification world we live in now has stripped much of that meaning away. It was time-consuming, sure, but that journey added to the experience and allowed me to explore, do side-quests and allowed me to end up somewhere else entirely. And it’s one of the things I miss most maybe.
The loss of a digital commons
When something matures enough and becomes indispensable enough, capitalism’s claws inevitably take hold. The internet, once a messy, chaotic commons, gradually became something more calculated, more controlled. What had been a sprawling web of independently owned websites, forums, and niche communities began to coalesce around a handful of massive platforms. The open web was fenced in, and with it, its capacity to truly surprise and delight—as in not directed by algorithmic overlords—began to shrink.
At first, these changes felt harmless and exciting, even. Post-dotcom bubble startups promised us convenience and social connection. They offered things we didn’t even know we needed: free email accounts, seamless ways to stay in touch with distant relatives, cheap and endless access to music, TV, and movies. Early Web 2.0 felt magical. The launch of Gmail, the advent of Apple’s iPhone all things I was super excited about. But these advances, as transformative as they were, masked a deeper shift: the internet was no longer a place built for people; it was being optimized for engagement, profit, and control.
Platforms like Google and Facebook began to dominate, consolidating their grip on how information and conversation flowed online. Social media redefined how we interacted, turning what once felt spontaneous and joyful into something performative and transactional. Sharing became “content.” Conversations became “engagement.” And these platforms don’t just want us to participate. They wanted us to stay, to scroll endlessly, to click and consume. And we complied. I complied. Life is hectic enough as it is, and they made it easier. When you’re just trying to survive—like most people do, on different scales—convenience wins.
Take the recent Reddit turmoil as an example. Once a beacon of the “old web”—at least in vibe—it shows perfectly how platforms succumb to corporate dominance. Reddit’s strength lies in its community-driven spirit: user-generated content and governance at its heart. But in 2023, a seismic shift occurred at the hearth of this sprawling online megalopolis when CEO Steve Huffman raised API costs so drastically that it effectively crushed third-party apps and tools. Many of these apps were built and used by dedicated users, the ones who made the platform big in the first place. But Reddit had something more valuable on its mind: its vast trove of user-generated content. That, with the rise of large language models in AI became a goldmine. And so, the platform prioritized its bottom line over the communities that had built it.
The backlash was immediate. Subreddits went dark in protest. Long-time moderators and contributors abandoned ship. But there was nothing anyone could do. What was once an authentic hub of niche communities and conversations was hollowed out for profit.
But it’s not just platforms that have changed; we have too. The internet’s shift from exploration to extraction has rewired how we think, interact, and feel. Social media algorithms are designed to maximize engagement, triggering dopamine hits in our brains. Each like, each notification, each comment offers a micro-dose of validation or rejection within a carefully engineered cycle to keep us scrolling. More eyes on ads. More data to harvest. More profit.
As this shift deepened, online spaces became less about connection and more about conflict. Algorithmic platforms amplify polarization and division, incentivizing performative, endless arguments. And thus conflict has become the dominant form of interaction, eroding meaningful engagement in favor of shallow disputes designed to grab attention. And it doesn’t stop at conflict. In process platforms have degraded our collective capacity for thoughtfulness, creativity, and meaningful connection. What was once a space for curiosity and collaboration now feels like a casino. Endless slots with no payout, where tech giants are in full control.
Learning and mentorship has changed as well. The internet has made information more accessible than ever before, which is a great thing, something that shaped my life big time. I was bad at school but thanks to the internet I learned a craft. I spent endless nights behind the computer engulfed in forums and tutorials learning to design. But what used to be a community of creators sharing for the love of it has turned mostly into funnels driving you toward paid courses, monetized templates, and increasingly uniform outputs.
And the saddest part is, we know it’s happening. We feel it. Yet, we lack the capacity to resist it. Some companies even capitalize on this awareness, mimicking the authenticity of deep engagement to generate profit. With curated aesthetics and a “if you know, you know” vibe, they obscure their commercial intentions, creating the illusion of intimacy and exclusivity. But it’s all superficial veneer, like a nice TEKLA pyjama to wear under that nicely woven blanket, lulling us deeper into complacency.
Building doorways out of the algorithmic cage
Like I said earlier, I like to believe it’s not all doom and gloom. Even in an internet increasingly dominated by corporate platforms, there are signs of resistance. People still willing to venture out and explore. Movements and philosophies that push back against this force and wanting to build something different, not satisfied with what we are served now. And they aren’t merely nostalgic attempts to recreate the past; they’re forward-looking, grounded in the belief that a more humane internet is still possible.
Similar to growing up from a kid to an adult, the internet has become a more serious place. And yet, every adult carries a part of them that longs to go back to a time when life felt easier, more fun. We should have more joy and playfulness again, an internet not optimized because it’s profitable or productive, but because it’s fun. That’s what the ‘old’ internet was for so many of us: a playground, a sandbox, a space to experiment without fear of judgment or the pressure to optimize. And because of that messy, alive, and deeply personal.
I don’t want to keep referring back to the ‘old days’ but perhaps there’s value in looking at the past—not as an exercise in grief, but as a way to extract lessons, values, and possibilities for another future.
A concept I keep returning to that relates to this feeling of uselessness I often feel within a broken world is that of dual power. Coined by Black Socialists, they describe it as:
“A situation where there are two powers—a democratic one developed by poor and working-class people (defined by direct democracy), and the other one capitalist (defined by domination)—coexisting and competing for legitimacy during a transition away from capitalism.”
And as they explain, their top level strategy is about:
“building a new world in the shell of the old, and letting that world speak for itself.”
It resonates a lot with me because it reads as not just critique of the present but also a call to action. It acknowledges that alternatives don’t always have to wait for systemic collapse, that we can build alongside dominant systems, gradually chipping away at their control.
If we map this onto the internet, where we live under the dominant power of corporate capitalism—where our digital world is defined by centralization, surveillance, and profit extraction. It’s an internet of algorithmic amplification, data harvesting, and monopolistic platforms that extract value from users while offering little in return and that seems broken beyond repair.
But the pendulum has to swing the other side eventually, I hope. And with it, a democratic internet could take more shape again. One that prioritizes participation, ownership, and collaboration. An internet rebuild as a public commons. These two systems can coexist and compete, we just have to imagine what we would want out of this malleable thing called the web and start putting in the work and build again.
You can see the seeds of a new, more democratic internet are already being planted through philosophies and frameworks that reimagine what the web could be. Venkatesh Rao’s concept of the cozy web highlights the potential of smaller, intimate spaces—like Discord servers, private Slack groups, and Telegram chats—where trust and community take precedence over public performance. Whether you call it cozy web, slow internet or indie web, these spaces reject the engagement-driven dynamics of platforms like Twitter, prioritizing connection over conflict.
However, their reliance on corporate infrastructure leaves them vulnerable to deplatforming and policy changes. Which is something Steph Ango touches upon on his file over app philosophy advocating for user ownership in digital spaces by emphasizing formats like markdown files that remain portable and independent of proprietary platforms. Just like the early web, allowing users to maintain control over their creations while fostering resilience in the face of centralized systems.
Others talk about it in more broader systemic change. Maria Farrell and Robin Berjon’s vision of rewilding the internet calls for restoring open ecosystems where innovation and collaboration can thrive, dismantling the walled gardens of tech giants to rebuild the internet as a participatory commons. And Annika Hansteen-Izora’s digital gardens takes a more poetic approach. These intentionally unpolished sites reject the rigidity of corporate platforms, offering room for creativity, adaptability, and meaningful collaboration.
Together, these ideas could present a compelling blueprint for rebuilding the internet as a space defined by care, curiosity, and shared governance. And these are just a couple of examples out there. On the more practical side; there are already digital spaces that challenge the dominance of corporate tech and offer alternative visions for how we can interact online.
For example, the recently launched Subvert.fm is a collectively owned music marketplace created in response to Bandcamp’s increasing corporatization.
Platforms like Urbit aim to decentralize user ownership by serving as a space for independent digital interactions, and putting the control back in your hands.
But it doesn’t have to be as big as building a whole new music platform or operating system, smaller initiatives like Gossip’ Web list of handmade website, Tiny Awards that celebrates the personal internet, a how to publish something online by Jake Dow-Smith are all seeds for something bigger.
These efforts, ranging from big initiatives to smaller, quieter forms of resistance show that a more participatory, user-owned internet is already taking shape within the shell of the now.
It shows that we don’t have to wait for the corporate internet to collapse to begin building something better. A lot of people are claiming unexplored territory in the frontier and building as we speak a ‘other’ internet already. These efforts may seem small compared to the vast machinery of tech giants, and it won’t be easy. The corporate internet, with its monopolistic control and vast resources, isn’t likely to relinquish its dominance without resistance.
But perhaps a democratic internet offers something that algorithms and ad revenue never can: the possibility of an internet built for people, by people. An internet where users are not products but participants, where curiosity and connection thrive, and where digital spaces reflect the values of those who inhabit them.
If enough of us care to cultivate these spaces, we might not just resist the internet’s enshittification—we might rewild it entirely.
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