Addiction isn’t a bug of digital consumption. It’s a feature. But we can opt out.
In 2009, after saying goodbye to a friend I knew I’d never see again, I turned to see her one last time. She sat alone at the table we’d just shared. She was already bent to her new iPhone, one person among nine or ten patrons of some sunlit bar on New York’s Lower East Side. Everyone was leaning into their phones.
This wasn’t the image of her I wanted, and I have other, more requited memories of her and our friendship. But this memory sticks.
This is how we live now
What seemed alien then—the speed of my friend’s attentional shift; those other people at the bar, ignoring each other for fear of missing out on something else—now feels so commonplace that I’m kind of surprised when people hang out without their phones.
The digital is everywhere. And yet we’re still learning how to interact with our devices. In phone-space, minutes and hours can disappear down a whirlpool of microsecond engagements, mini attention-grabs, competing calls to action without calls to depth, myriad brief obsessions with tangential novelties.
Stolen time is an ongoing personal struggle for me, and maybe for you. Devices make for bad interpersonal scenes too: These hypnotic digital engagements aren’t always what you’d call pro-social.
Our biological brains evolved to monotask, not multitask. Our digital systems (and those of us who design them) handily exploit our cognitive weaknesses as a wide-open ecological opportunity. We’re actively designing the Internet to stimulate dopamine; it feeds off impulsivity and reward-seeking behavior. 1
Falling asleep in my phone’s blue light. Waking to curated content. Whole mornings gone on Instagram. Joking about my inability to concentrate or write, much less recall essential knowledge without help from Google, Facebook, Apple, Amazon. Subsuming my personhood into consumerhood, into a fraction of a percentage of clicks, into food for a corporation.
Drowning in data
Literacy faces exponentially more complex demands today than even eight or nine years ago. In 2009, global data volume reached 800 exabytes, an infinitesimal percentage of which my friend in that bar contributed. In 2011, IBM published that “every day, we create 2.5 quintillion bytes of data.” In 2017, speaking conservatively, we probably create close to 7.5 quintillion bytes every day.
Combined, every beach and desert on Earth contains roughly 7.5 quintillion grains of sand. If every byte was a grain of sand, then each day, we duplicate all the sand on Earth.
Our individual brains can neither comprehend nor meaningfully engage with this flood of data—except as a flood. How does this affect us, our relationships, or simply our ability to participate in the world?
Is it possible to tread water?
Not that I’d trade this world for some pre-Internet past. If I could’ve taken my own iPhone and photographed my friend in that bar, digitally expanding my limited biological memory, I would’ve in a heartbeat.
I sometimes love these beautiful distractions. I love scanning Instagram feeds to study why one image haunts me when most are instantly forgettable. I love finding tutorials and solutions to problems on YouTube. I love discovering the life works of scientists and writers and artists, just by falling down a search engine’s rabbit hole. What I love less is feeling sick after nine hours spent staring at a screen.
Is there a way to fully live in the digital world without becoming addicted to it?
Follow the money
Ask Who’s getting my money? What are they doing with it?
Sometimes, the question is Who’s getting my not-money? The conspicuous absence of a price tag on a product usually means I’m the product. Most free downloads, trial runs, email providers, apps, social media platforms, storage, games, services—anything ostensibly free—are built on a business model wherein data insights exceed the financial costs for development or distribution. 2
Under this model, many digital experiences are designed to trigger addictive behaviors. Who profits?
Follow the fullfilment
Ask What fulfills me?
Then, equally important, ask Which engagements are fulfilling and which are empty calories?
As economists point out, costs are embedded in every relationship. But not all exchanges are equally weighed for both parties. It hurt, seeing my friend fall into her phone so quickly after saying goodbye, because it meant she wasn’t ready or willing to pay the emotional price of that moment. 3 When digital consumption costs too much or stops being fulfilling, ask what fulfillment means. 4 Then weigh which activities or products or services fulfill longer past the point of purchase or bring deeper happiness, and engage with those.5
Follow the physical experience
Ask Will I remember this?
Shinrin yoku means forest bath in Japanese, it perfectly describes the total sensory experience of being in a forest, and no digital expression can capture these smells and sounds and tastes and physical sensations. A colleague once spoke of prioritizing experience over consumerism as “the joy of being a body in the world.” I can’t put it better.
Lately I’m trying to use shinrin yoku as a metaphor—and also literally—to find fulfillment in being a body in the world. Digital abstractions can be compelling, expansive, useful, even fascinating to experience. But I’m never really happy in the digital. 6
Fulfillment, even intellectual, requires moving from comfort through frustration, hunger, or exhaustion to attain something. Maybe this movement includes digital experiences, but fulfillment primarily needs a body moving through the world.
Moving through the world, for me, means working in advertising to create digital environments of consumption. I get the irony and acknowledge culpability, and I think that we in digital advertising should start consciously removing addiction from our designs.7
No designer, brand strategist, art director, or writer should expect consumers to consistently connect with their work—not unless their work carries a value that fundamentally distinguishes it from the data flood.
If we in advertising can shut up and listen to our audience, we can hear what people want instead of drowning them in what we think they want. With greater access to richer data than at any other moment in history, we can design for relevance—not addiction—by giving people what they’re asking for.
Could depth of experience, rather than novelty or immediacy, become the dominant advertising principle?
Imagine how generous this data-inspired, user-centric marketing could look: Pushing relevancy over coercion. Bringing retention and lifetime customer value to performance metrics. Turning a million shallow engagements into long-form experiences, into islands of substance. Understanding and reflecting what really matters to people. Giving them something tangible to hold onto against the flood.
Our industry can choose to keep coercing people with shallow, addictive engagements, but we’re not immune to our own tricks. We’re all in this together. Sometimes I think that working in this industry practically guarantees digital addiction rather than insulating against it.
The triggers are becoming subtler, more sophisticated, as the boundaries between digital and physical experiences disappear. When, in a year or two, mixed reality permeates everyday life, all our consumer addictions will be primed for those irresistible triggers.
When that time comes, I’ll want, more than ever, fulfilling moments to brace against the flood. I’ll need a solid hiking habit or a long-overdue hug from a long-lost friend to ground me. And I hope I won’t need my phone to remember what matters.