How Internet Algorithms Are Designed to Trap Us

Concetta Cucchiarelli
November 07, 2024 | 3 min read

In many of our favorite stories, the hero has a mentor or a guide. It’s part of the “hero’s journey.”

You may not feel like a hero when you’re sitting on the couch scrolling on your phone, but did you know, even then, you have a guide?

It's an invisible one, and it's called "the algorithm."

Meet the Algorithm

An algorithm is a set of rules or a process that your favorite apps follow in order to decide what the app does — most importantly, what content it shows to you.

The algorithm selects what you are exposed to, what pieces of news, what photos, videos, what other types of content are served to your eyeballs. The algorithm decides what you see during your internet journey.

In actuality, there’s more than one algorithm. Google has one, Facebook has a different one, and on and on. But all of them have the same goal: to select content you want to see.

At first, this seems helpful. Considering how much information is out here, it's good to have something that parses and selects to make your journey easier. And the more the algorithm guides you, the more data it collects about you, and the better it comes to know you. That’s great, right?

It really seems that the algorithm wants the best for us. And for free?

Not so fast.

The purpose of serving content that we want to see is not to create an enjoyable experience for us (otherwise, we wouldn’t see so much content that makes us mad!) but instead to enable monetization.

The purpose of serving content that we want to see is not to create an enjoyable experience for us ... but instead to enable monetization.

Follow the Money

Have you ever wondered why social media platforms like Meta (Facebook and Instagram), Reddit, and X are free to use, even though you get valuable content from them?

Social platforms charge businesses to run targeted ads to its users, and because of all the information the algorithm has on you, advertisers can target the people who will really be interested in their services and maximize their ROI (return on investment).

The more targeted content they give us, the longer we stay there, and the longer we stay, the more ads we are exposed to.

That means more money for Facebook.

Sure, we don't pay for this content with money, but we do pay with our attention. And attention is a scarce resource these days.

Sure, we don't pay for this content with money, but we do pay with our attention. And attention is a scarce resource these days.

Your Most Valuable Resource

This idea of attention as a scarce resource is the core of the concept of the “Attention Economy,” as Herbert Simon first named it in 1971.

Before that, information was the scarce resource. You couldn’t just google any information you needed.

But today, the amount of information is so huge that what counts instead is the attention needed to select and consume it.

Simon understood that this wealth of information would create “a need to allocate [our] attention efficiently among the overabundance of information sources that might consume it."

The paradox is that the more information we have, the less we are able to pay attention. This trade-off is a big challenge for advertisers but also for our mental health and sense of personal fulfillment.

This digital economic shift must be considered when navigating the web and assessing our digital habits.

Because, unlike in the best stories, this time, the guide is not here to help the hero succeed. No, this type of guide is actually the villain.

[BACK TO “WHY FOCUS IS DYING”]

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March 22, 2025 4 min read

I’ve spent years writing while secretly fearing that a single misplaced word would expose me — not just as a bad writer, but as a fraud.

My background is originally in photography, and I see it there, too. A photographer I know recently posted a before-and-after comparison of their editing from 2018 versus now, asking if we also saw changes in our own work over the years.

Naturally, we should. If our work is the same, years apart, have we really grown as artists?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

So why is that the growing, the process of it, the daily grind of it, is so painful?

The Haunting

Hitting “publish” on an essay or a blog always stirs up insecurity — the overthinking, the over-editing. The fear that someone will call me out for not being a real writer.

I initially hesitated to make writing part of my freelance work. My background is in photography and design. Writing was something I gravitated toward, but I had no degree to validate it. No official stamp of approval.

Like many writers, I started with zero confidence in my voice — agonizing over edits, drowning in research, second-guessing every word.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

I even created a shield for myself: ghostwriting.

If my words weren’t my own, they couldn’t be wrong. Ghostwriting meant safety — no risk, no vulnerability, just words without ownership.

I still remember the feeling of scrolling to the bottom of an article I had written and seeing someone else’s name, their face beside words that had once been mine.

The truth is, I always wanted to write. As a kid, I imagined it. Yet, I found myself handing over my work, letting someone else own it.

I told myself it didn’t matter. It was work. Getting paid to write should be enough.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

I wasn’t just playing it safe — I was slowly erasing myself. Word by word. Edit by edit. And finally, in the by-line.

The Disappearing Act

This was true when I was writing under my own name, too. The more I worried about getting it right, the less I sounded like me.

I worried. I worried about how long an essay was (“people will be bored”), finding endless examples as proof of my research (“no way my own opinion is valid on its own”), the title I gave a piece (“it has to be a hook”), or editing out personal touches (“better to be safe than be seen”).

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting. Advice meant to help only locked me in. It created a sentence rewritten to sound smarter, an opinion softened to sound safer, a paragraph reshaped to sound acceptable.

I built a guardrail around my writing, adjusting, tweaking, over-correcting.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

It took deliberate effort to break this habit. I’m not perfect, but here’s what I know after a year of intentionally letting my writing sound like me:

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

But playing it safe makes the work dull. Writing loses its edge.

The Resurrection

The drive for acceptance is a slippery slope — one we don’t always realize we’re sliding down. It’s present in the small choices that pull us away from artistic integrity: checking how others did it first, tweaking our work to fit a mold, hesitating before saying what we actually mean.

And let’s be honest — this isn’t just about writing. It bleeds into everything.

It’s there when we stay silent in the face of wrongdoing, when we hold back our true way of being, when we choose work that feels “respectable,” whatever that means. It’s in every “yes” we say when we really want to say “no.”

If your self-expression is rooted in a need for acceptance, are you creating for yourself — or for others? Does your work help you explore your thoughts, your life? Does it add depth, energy, and meaning?

My work is clearer. It moves with my own rhythm. It’s less shaped by external influence, by fear, by the constant need to smooth it into something more polished, more likable.

I get it. We’re social creatures. Isolation isn’t the answer. Ignoring societal norms won’t make us better writers. Often, the most meaningful work is born from responding to or resisting those norms.

But knowing yourself well enough to recognize when acceptance is shaping your work brings clarity.

Am I doing this to be part of a community, to build connections, to learn and grow?

Or am I doing this to meet someone else’s expectations, dulling my voice just to fit in?

The Revival

Here’s what I know as I look back at my writing: I’m grateful for the years spent learning, for the times I sought acceptance with curiosity. But I’m in a different phase now.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

I know who I am, and those who connect with my work reflect that back at me — in the messages they send, in the conversations we share.

It’s our differences that drive growth. I want to nurture these connections, to be challenged by difference, to keep writing in a way that feels like me. The me who isn’t afraid to show what I think and care about.

So, I ask you, as I ask myself now:

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

If no one was watching, if no one could judge, what would you write?

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