The internet isn’t fun anymore—and here's what broke it

In the beginning, the internet was a mess—in the best possible way. It was chaotic, decentralised, full of quirks and curiosity, and designed for discovery. People created homepages on GeoCities, joined obscure forums, posted on LiveJournal, and made things simply for the joy of it.

And now, the generation that grew up online is asking: What happened to the joy?

From connection to consumption

Long before the internet became a playground for viral content, it began as a wartime experiment in resilience. Born from Cold War anxieties, the original ARPANET—funded by the US Department of Defense in 1969—was designed to decentralise communication in case of attack. This early packet-switching network marked the internet’s first heartbeat: robust, collaborative, and human-centred.

“The early internet was like a house party—chaotic but warm,” says Kapil Gupta, founder of Solh Wellness, an AI-powered mental health platform. “Today, it’s a casino. Flashing lights, no clocks, and a system engineered not for connection but for consumption.”

This shift from communication to commerce wasn’t in the blueprint. TCP/IP (1974), developed by pioneers like Vint Cerf and Bob Kahn, was meant to enable information-sharing, not attention capture. But over time, the commercialisation of attention took centre stage. Platforms no longer cared if users felt safe or connected; they only cared if users stayed. That means content is engineered to provoke, not to enrich.

“What changed isn’t the tech—it’s the intention behind it,” Gupta says. “Emotional presence has been replaced by performance. Conversations by content. And the cost is your nervous system.”

Swati Kashyap, a 29-year-old PhD student in Delhi, recalls the early thrill of joining the digital world. “I downloaded WhatsApp after my Class 12 exams. It felt like entering a global town square,” she says. “When Instagram came along, it was more intimate than Facebook. There was no pressure to post. Now, it feels like if I don’t share my Switzerland vacation photos, the experience doesn’t count. The grid is the proof.”

The architecture of the web began to shift dramatically post-2010. With the rise of smartphones, app ecosystems and social media giants, design became centralised, algorithmic, and driven by engagement metrics. User interfaces grew cleaner, but flatter—optimised not for discovery, but for retention and monetisation. The web’s aesthetic moved from the personal to the corporate.

Meanwhile, a 2022 study by IIIT-Hyderabad’s Human-Centred Computing Group found that young Indian users, though digitally savvy, overwhelmingly interact within a handful of closed platforms. The internet for them isn’t a landscape—it’s a feed.

The rise and toll of the performance self

If the 1980s and ’90s were about expanding access—with the TCP/IP adoption in 1983, the birth of the World Wide Web in 1990, and graphical browsers like Mosaic in 1993—then the 2000s were about performance. Where the early web allowed for anonymous experimentation, today’s internet is built on visibility. Screen names have been replaced by selfies. Likes, shares and follower counts now serve as social proof.

“Our online presence has become a de facto identity for the larger world,” says Vineeta Dwivedi, associate professor at SPJIMR and a scholar of digital communication. “Even though that digital personality might be far from the true self, it carries enormous weight—social, professional, even existential.”

That weight has led to what researchers call “performance identity”, where people begin to live for the metrics. “We’re raising a generation that can edit a reel better than they can sit still with a thought,” Gupta says. “Their sense of self is not internal—it’s in the views, the likes, the metrics.”

Where once people shared life’s highlights with close-knit circles, they now broadcast vacations, meals and milestones to hundreds—if not thousands—of acquaintances, strangers or followers. The dynamic is more transactional than personal. “Someone likes five of your posts, then DMs you to share theirs. You oblige. That’s the barter economy of validation,” Kashyap says. “It’s no longer technology alone, it’s psychology.”

The dopamine trap

This evolution is more neurological than just social. The architecture of the modern internet, shaped by algorithms and engineered stickiness, now thrives on instant gratification.

“The dopamine-driven feedback loop of likes and notifications conditions users to seek instant gratification,” says Dr Santosh Bangar, senior consultant psychiatrist at Gleneagles Hospital in Mumbai. “Over time, this reduces emotional sensitivity, increases anxiety and leads to shortened attention spans.”

“Many patients experiencing chronic stress or burnout also report feeling drained by social media,” Dr Bangar adds. “They constantly compare their lives to curated highlight reels online, which can trigger anxiety, self-doubt or even an inferiority complex.”

In short, the internet hasn’t just changed what we do; it’s recalibrated what we feel.

The loneliness in connection

Ironically, the network once built to foster connection is now a major contributor to isolation. “People log on for connection and community,” Gupta says, “but increasingly they log off to find peace.”

The paradox is stark. Even as the internet’s reach has expanded—from the dot-com boom to the mobile internet revolution of 2007, and beyond—its ability to nourish genuine human connection seems to have shrunk. What was once a curiosity-driven ecosystem is now an anxiety-producing necessity.

Users may complain that the internet feels “unfun” or “dead”, but many remain caught in its loop—compelled by FOMO, habit or the demands of professional life.

A study published online on June 6, 2023, of 505 Indian adolescents (aged 12–17) showed psychological distress significantly predicted social media addiction, with FoMO and boredom proneness acting as mediators. “I’m not from the era of visiting cards,” says Nikhil Aggarwal, a chartered accountancy aspirant in his early twenties. “I opened my eyes to LinkedIn. That’s how I connect now.”

Aggarwal’s father, a businessman, believes connections are long-term investments—best nurtured in person. Aggarwal, by contrast, connects via direct messages. “I don’t know what handing out a card really does,” he says. “All I know is how to DM someone with a template. But even that feels cold now. People scrutinise every move, especially when you’re Gen Z.”

Even close friendships aren’t immune. “My best friend and I have known each other since second grade. We used to call on birthdays even after school ended,” says 28-year-old Mahima Dubey from Lucknow. “But once we connected on Instagram, something shifted. Our lives became too visible. If I miss putting up a birthday story for her, things get awkward.”

In addition to amplifying connections, social media further complicated it. “We know too much now,” she adds. “Likes, follows, and active statuses have become proxies for emotion. And that’s scary. Should I really be interpreting someone’s mood by who they follow?”

From digital exhaustion to real-world craving

In response, a quiet counterculture is emerging—both offline and online. Book clubs, communal dinners, mutual aid groups and unplugged weekends are gaining traction. This isn’t nostalgia; it’s self-preservation.

“Yes, this is psychological self-preservation,” says Dr Bangar. “The reel life is different from real life. People need daily, face-to-face interactions. There is meaning in the physical world that no screen can replicate.”

Online, too, a shift is underway. Disillusioned users are moving away from mega-platforms towards smaller, more intentional digital spaces—Substacks, private Discord groups, and newsletters. In many ways, this mimics the intimacy of the early web: niche forums, IRC chats and personalised webpages.

“There is still a niche audience for long-form reading,” Dwivedi acknowledges. “But it won’t rival the scale or reach of TikTok or YouTube.”

What we’ve lost—and what we might still reclaim

The internet has always reflected our collective aspirations. In its earliest form, it was a symbol of open information and idealistic connectivity. With the emergence of Google, Facebook, and YouTube in the late 1990s and early 2000s, it became a digital public square only to be overrun by commerce, surveillance and performative culture in the years that followed.

An AI-driven internet is already upon us. And the coming years—with Web3, quantum computing and the metaverse—may bring even greater shifts. The architecture will evolve. The question is: will our values?

For now, Dwivedi offers a note of cautious hope: “The internet remains a powerful and democratic tool—at least in most countries. But the question is no longer what it can do for us. The question is: what kind of people is it asking us to become?”

And whether, in the end, we can still choose to become something else.

Lead image: Pexels

Also read: The coolest microtrends you’ll wanna soft-launch this season

Also read: How to build a wardrobe that works for your actual life, and not just Instagram