I miss the old internet
Remember the old internet? The hum and buzz of dial-up, the endless waiting for pages to load line-by-line, and the quirky excitement of personalised GeoCities pages cluttered with blinking GIFs? I really miss that.
Back then, before concepts like Web 2.0, 3.0, and the ‘metaverse’ (ahem), the internet felt intimate—it was raw, amateurish, and wonderfully human. Forums, bulletin boards, and chatrooms were small villages where people actually had a sense of the person behind the username. Online interactions were often bizarre, but they were (for the most part) authentic. Each connection felt deliberate, an act of exploration into a digital landscape that felt largely unknown and expansive.
Early internet aesthetics were a glorious mess. Websites felt like digital bedrooms, chaotic, personal, and full of things their creators loved. There was no house style. There were no templates. You’d stumble into pages with rainbow text on black backgrounds, MIDI music autoplaying in the background, and visitor counters that made no sense. It was weird because it was human.
Now, everything looks the same. The quirks are gone, scrubbed clean by UX consultants and A/B testing. You can’t even tell where you are anymore, because everywhere looks like everywhere else. The early web wasn’t user-friendly, but it was friendlier. You weren’t being nudged along a funnel, you were just exploring.
Exploring. Logging on was like stepping into uncharted territory, filled with endless possibilities. Every click held the promise of stumbling upon something entirely new, something unexpected. There were no carefully curated feeds, no tailored algorithms. This unpredictability fostered curiosity and imagination.
In those good old days, you were either online or offline, there was no in-between. This binary experience heightened the sense of adventure. Connecting meant consciously choosing to step into another world, one that required commitment and often patience. Each session had a clear beginning and an end, enhancing the excitement and anticipation of going online. Today, when we are perpetually connected, that thrill of entering cyberspace has faded. The distinction between digital and physical spaces has blurred, making the online world mundane, ordinary, and, quite frankly, inescapable. We’re addicted, and addiction numbs you, it turns something positive into a negative. Being always online means never fully experiencing the satisfaction of arrival or departure, only a relentless sense of obligation, of needing to stay updated and involved, yet rarely feeling genuinely connected or fulfilled.
There was a kind of sacredness to how slow the internet used to be. Waiting for a page to load gave you time to anticipate it. Clicking a link was a commitment. Downloading a single song could take the better part of an afternoon, and when it finished, it felt like treasure. Slowness gave weight to your time online. You logged in. You logged out. The web didn’t chase you into the bathroom or your bed. Now we’ve made speed the metric of value. Everything is instant, like bad coffee. There’s no space to think, you’re always mid-scroll, mid-reply, mid-something. The internet used to be a destination, whereas now it’s just ambient.
The early internet thrived on decentralisation. Unlike today’s web, dominated by Mag 7 giants like Google, Facebook, and Amazon, early online communities were scattered across independently-run forums, blogs, and personal websites. This decentralisation cultivated a vibrant ecosystem of creativity and innovation, untouched by the constraints of profit-driven policies and design. Users had greater control over content and engagement, creating uniquely diverse spaces.
We were promised infinite content. And yes, technically, we got it. But the early internet felt more expansive precisely because it wasn’t trying to be clever about what you should see next. You wandered and clicked. You fell into strange corners of the web, not because an algorithm nudged you there, but because you were unguarded. Now we’re served an endless buffet of exactly what we’re expected to like. The illusion of variety masks a narrowing of perspective, and discovery has been replaced by recommendation (I blame recommender systems for a lot of society’s ills). We don’t browse anymore, we receive—surprise has been engineered out.
The commodification of cyberspace transformed it from a free, experimental playground into a heavily monetised environment. Advertising, sponsored content, and data-driven marketing strategies dominate our current online experiences, drastically altering the authenticity and quality of online interactions. Gone is the simplicity of sharing information purely for enjoyment or curiosity; now, commercial interests dictate much, if not all, of the content we consume.
And it’s not just the companies, people have absorbed these commercial values as well. Many users now approach their online presence as a brand, carefully cultivating content to maximise followers, likes, and engagement. Social interactions become transactional, subtly calculated exchanges of visibility and validation. Friendships and communities online, which once thrived on genuine interest and spontaneous connection, often feel performative, guided by algorithms and metrics rather than shared passions or curiosity. The drive for personal profit—whether monetary or in the form of social capital—has reshaped the very essence of digital communication, diminishing the authenticity that once defined our online lives.
The internet was once made by people who had no idea what they were doing, and that was its charm. Amateurs built websites not for profit or prestige, but for the sheer joy of putting something into the world. Nobody needed a monetisation strategy. Now everything is content and everyone is a brand. Platforms reward polish, and polish requires resources. The amateur spirit has been pushed to the margins. You have to optimise to monetise, convert attention into revenue. The hobbyist internet has been replaced by the influencer economy.
But it was the amateurs who built the internet. Their work was rough, but it had substance.
Meaningful engagements have almost entirely given way to brief, surface-level interactions on social media platforms. Instant gratification now supersedes depth and thoughtful conversation, reshaping our social habits fundamentally. We have never been more disconnected from each other.
The present necessity of maintaining carefully curated online identities has stifled genuine interaction and encouraged self-censorship. And even when you hide behind an anonymous username today, you're rarely truly anonymous. Platforms track your clicks, purchases, preferences, and pauses as you scroll. Every interaction leaves digital fingerprints, quietly collected and analysed, tying together your interests, fears, and desires into a profile that shapes your experience online. This constant awareness—subtle yet omnipresent—changes how we express ourselves. It introduces a layer of caution, a hesitation rooted in the knowledge that each online act could be stored indefinitely, potentially resurfacing later to haunt us.
This shift from authentic anonymity to cautious visibility has profoundly altered the texture of digital communication. Conversations once marked by uninhibited candour are now tinged with careful restraint. Ironically, in an age that prizes sharing and openness, we’ve become wary of truly revealing ourselves. The internet promised liberation, yet we’ve found ourselves bound by invisible threads of surveillance and self-monitoring, forever mindful of who might be watching.
Smartphones have obviously compounded these problems, ensuring we are continuously tethered to the internet. This always-on lifestyle creates digital fatigue and diminishes the intentionality and excitement previously associated with internet use.
And today’s always-on, intuitive, and seamless interfaces have sacrificed empowerment for ease, effectively transforming us from active participants into passive consumers—precisely the opposite of what the web once aspired to be. There was genuine educational value embedded within the early internet: learning basic HTML to customise a personal webpage or navigating complex file-sharing systems required technical curiosity, creativity, and problem-solving skills. This process was rewarding and empowering; every successful upload, every line of working code represented a small personal achievement, a testament to one’s growing mastery of the future.
Early internet platforms like Flash and music-sharing sites like Napster cultivated diverse and independent creativity (sure, some copyright laws were broken too, but that’s for another post). Users not only consumed content but also contributed to it, often passionately and without expectation of profit. This ecosystem encouraged experimentation and individuality, fostering niche communities and giving voice to alternative perspectives that might otherwise have remained unheard.
Today, however, algorithm-driven platforms prioritise mainstream, commercial content tailored primarily to maximise advertising revenue. As a result, we’re far less likely to encounter content that challenges us or broadens our perspectives, and instead find ourselves trapped within echo chambers that reflect our past preferences back at us, endlessly. The loss here isn’t just cultural; it’s also deeply personal, limiting our ability to encounter and engage with new ideas, new voices, and ultimately, our own potential for creativity and growth.
Nostalgia for the old internet may represent a broader longing for authenticity and a sense of genuine community in an increasingly commercialised and algorithmically mediated world. Such nostalgia reflects a deeper desire to reclaim digital spaces that are personal, spontaneous, and driven by curiosity rather than commerce. But it’s highly unlikely that past will ever be recovered.