Em-Dash Theory

A lone observer stands at an old stone observatory, looking through a telescope at a huge glowing em dash floating in the night sky like a celestial object. The scene is calm, surreal, and dreamlike.

The humble em dash has somehow become a cultural symbol. A punctuation mark that quietly existed for centuries is now treated as a sign of artificial intelligence, suspicious authorship, or even literary dishonesty. Many people who had never heard of an em dash now believe they can diagnose machine writing simply by spotting one. Others who have used them for years suddenly feel the need to hide them. Meanwhile, a growing number of readers dismiss entire pieces of work simply because this ancient line appears somewhere within the text.

This strange situation raises a deeper question. How did a piece of punctuation become a credibility test?

A Tool That Became a Symptom

The em dash is old. Older than the internet, older than machine learning, older than our entire cultural framework around “authorship.” Writers have used it for centuries as a flexible bridge between ideas. It has always served a practical purpose. Yet during the early years of modern AI writing systems, the em dash became one of their most recognisable quirks. The models used it frequently. Not because they were trying to be stylish, but because it was safe. The em dash is forgiving. It lets you connect thoughts without the risk of breaking grammar.

People noticed. And as often happens when people fear a new technology, a tool became a stereotype. The em dash suddenly carried a new symbolic meaning. A long line that once represented flexibility now represented suspicion.

The New Social Categories of Punctuation Panic

The response has been surprisingly diverse. We now have:

People who never knew about em dashes until the AI panic
They feel newly literate and empowered by their discovery. The punctuation mark has become a secret badge of awareness.

Writers who once loved em dashes but now avoid them
They fear their work will be dismissed as machine generated. Their natural voice feels compromised by public perception.

Readers who distrust any appearance of an em dash
For them, style has become a forensic clue. They treat punctuation as evidence in a crime scene.

Writers who refuse to change anything
They continue using em dashes out of principle. For them, abandoning a punctuation mark feels like surrender.

The indifferent majority
They have no idea any of this is happening and live more peaceful lives because of it.

There is even a small group of people who now use em dashes more often, simply to confuse the algorithm hunters. A kind of punctuation counter culture.

All of this points to a shared anxiety: people are afraid of losing control over what it means to write.

Writing Stripped of Its Ego

Here is where a deeper truth emerges. The value we assign to writing as an artform often masks a simpler reality. Writing is a tool for communication. It is a way of giving shape to language so that thoughts can move from one mind to another.

When we drop the ego that surrounds literacy, a radical idea appears.
Good writing is not defined by difficulty, elegance, or technical mastery. Good writing is defined by whether the message is understood.

If that is the standard, then AI assisted writing is not a threat. It becomes a new form of literacy. A faster and more accessible path to clarity. A way for people who struggle with grammar or structure to express themselves with far less friction. A way for neurodivergent thinkers, multilingual minds, and people with unusual communication styles to meet the world halfway without exhausting themselves.

AI has not cheapened writing. It has lowered the barriers of entry to a skill that was historically hoarded.

Reintroducing Artistry in a Transformed Landscape

Once we acknowledge that writing is a tool, we can reintroduce the idea of art. Not as a fragile skill that must be protected, but as a living process that adapts to its instruments.

Pencils did not destroy the paintbrush.
Cameras did not destroy painting.
Digital audio did not destroy music.
Word processors did not destroy authorship.

Instead, each technology expanded what art allowed.

AI assisted writing is part of the same lineage. It does not eliminate human creativity. It reshapes it. It frees the writer to focus on meaning rather than mechanics. It challenges old hierarchies built on difficulty and exclusivity. It allows writing to flow more naturally from the mind to the page without being throttled by technical limitations.

AI cannot replace human intention. It can only help articulate it.

The Ego Wound of the Literate World

The resistance to AI writing reveals something uncomfortable. Many people do not fear artificial intelligence. They fear a loss of status. If anyone can now produce a polished piece of writing, then traditional markers of authority lose their weight. Entire identities have been built around being “good with words.” Artificial intelligence threatens this social currency by offering fluency without struggle.

This is why a punctuation mark has become a battleground. The em dash is not the issue. It is a vessel for insecurity. A convenient object through which people can channel their discomfort about a shifting cultural landscape.

A Punctuation Mark Having an Existential Crisis

Ironically, modern AI models no longer rely on em dashes the way early ones did. In response to criticism, they now avoid them more than many human writers. We have reached a paradox where:

Humans avoid em dashes to avoid looking like AI.
AI avoids em dashes to avoid looking like AI.
The em dash becomes a victim of a conflict it did not choose.

A punctuation mark is undergoing reputation damage for simply doing its job.

What Writing Becomes Next

If we accept that writing is evolving, then perhaps AI assisted writing is not a deviation from the essence of writing, but a continuation of it. Writing has always been a collaboration between mind and tool. From quills to keyboards to spellcheck, each generation has adapted its relationship with language.

AI is simply the next instrument in this long lineage.

The question is not whether writing remains “pure.”
The question is whether writing continues to fulfill its purpose.

Can you express yourself more clearly?
Can your ideas reach people they would not otherwise reach?
Does this tool liberate your voice rather than constrain it?

If the answer is yes, then AI is not eroding writing. It is expanding it.

Conclusion: Free the Em-Dash

The em dash is not a sign of artificial thought. It is a reminder that we often confuse stylistic details with deeper truths. Human authenticity has never lived in punctuation. It lives in intention. It lives in meaning. It lives in the desire to be understood.

So let the em dash breathe again.
It was never a threat.
Only a very old line caught in a very modern panic.

The Price of Play: How Capitalism Hijacked Gaming’s Soul

An abstract painting of a glowing old-fashioned game cartridge on a pedestal, surrounded by dark mechanical cables that siphon light from it. The cables form faint dollar symbols and stretch into shadowy figures of players in the distance. The scene glows with melancholy blues and muted golds, symbolising how capitalism drains the soul of gaming while a small core of light still resists.

Once upon a time, a game came in a box, and that box contained everything.
You bought it, you owned it, and you played it. That was the deal.
There were no online check-ins, no missing features, no “coming soon” updates, only a complete world waiting to be explored.

There was a quiet purity in that exchange.
A developer built something they were proud of.
A player paid for it because they trusted that pride.
That was the unspoken pact between creator and audience: a transaction built on honesty.

Games like Super Mario Bros. (1985) and The Legend of Zelda (1986) embodied that purity. A single cartridge held an entire universe. Doom (1993) refined the model through shareware, offering the first episode for free and the rest for purchase. It was transparent, simple, and fair. The product was complete. The deal was clear.


The first cracks in the pact

Then came the era of the expansion pack. At first, it felt generous. Players bought Warcraft II: Beyond the Dark Portal (1996) or Age of Empires: The Rise of Rome (1998) because they wanted more of something they already loved.
These were true expansions, built from creative overflow rather than withheld content.

Diablo II: Lord of Destruction (2001) remains one of the best examples, adding new classes and an entire story act. Yet this was also when the idea of the “complete” game began to fade.

Not maliciously, at first.
But the seed was planted: perhaps a game could be split, extended, resold, and repackaged.


The patch era and the illusion of care

When players first connected online, games began to live beyond the disc or cartridge.
Developers could now release updates and bug fixes directly to players. It seemed like progress.

Quake (1996) pioneered downloadable updates. Half-Life (1998) and Morrowind (2002) made patches a normal part of gaming life. Initially, this felt like a gesture of goodwill. Developers could fix mistakes, refine balance, and reward loyalty.

But convenience soon became a crutch.
By the late 2000s, games were shipping half-finished, depending on “Day One Patches” to make them playable.
Entire studios began treating release as the start of development rather than the end.

Final Fantasy XIV (2010) became a symbol of this shift. Its launch was so disastrous that it had to be destroyed and rebuilt as A Realm Reborn (2013). The resurrection was impressive, but it also marked the death of the finished game. A new age had arrived, one where imperfection was no longer a failure but a business model.


DLC, season passes, and the death of completeness

As the 2000s progressed, expansion packs evolved into downloadable content. What began as a technological innovation quickly became a financial strategy.

When The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion (2006) sold its infamous horse armour cosmetic, it became a joke among players but a revelation for publishers.
Suddenly, small additions could generate massive revenue.

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare (2007) built an empire on paid map packs. Mass Effect 2 (2010) sold essential story chapters separately, slicing its own narrative for profit.

Then came the season pass, which allowed publishers to monetise the future itself.
You were no longer buying content. You were pre-ordering potential.

Assassin’s Creed III (2012) and Mortal Kombat X (2015) made it normal to pay in advance for unseen expansions.
In Destiny (2014), the model reached full maturity. Content cycled endlessly, and earlier material was quietly retired.

The player was no longer buying a work of art. They were buying a share in an ongoing experiment.


The age of tiered access: standard versus deluxe

Next came the illusion of choice.

Every major release now arrives with multiple editions: Standard, Deluxe, Gold, Ultimate.
The Standard Edition, once the full experience, has become the stripped-down minimum.
The Deluxe Edition rarely offers genuine creative content. It usually grants early access or small digital trinkets instead.

Hogwarts Legacy (2023) gave Deluxe buyers a three-day head start. Starfield (2023) did the same. Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II (2022) tiered its editions so precisely that the system resembled an airline pricing chart.

The tactic is subtle but powerful.
It monetises excitement itself.
It divides players not by passion or skill, but by spending power.

We no longer unlock secrets through play.
We unlock content through payment.
The so-called Deluxe Edition does not make the game better. It simply makes everyone else feel lesser.


The live service era: eternal beta

By the late 2010s, games were no longer seen as products but as platforms.

Destiny (2014) led the charge. GTA Online turned it into an empire. Fortnite perfected it.
The ideal of the complete, single experience was replaced with the promise of constant evolution.

Players were told they were joining a “living world.”
In truth, they were joining an economy.

Every week brought new skins, new currencies, and new reasons to log in.
Games stopped being designed to end. They were designed to sustain.

The player became both the consumer and the unpaid quality tester.
And when the profit dried up, the world simply died.
Anthem (2019) and Marvel’s Avengers (2020) stand as cautionary tales, both collapsing within a few years.

The eternal game is not immortal. It is undead, kept alive not by creativity but by consumption.


Gacha and the monetisation of desire

When endless updates stopped being enough, the industry discovered something even more lucrative: human psychology.

Gacha systems turned the act of wanting into a business.
You no longer bought the content itself, but the hope of obtaining it.

Fate/Grand Order (2015) and Genshin Impact (2020) perfected this model, disguising gambling with beautiful music and artistry. Each pull felt like a small miracle, a spark of dopamine wrapped in digital silk.

Diablo Immortal (2022) pushed the formula to absurdity, with some estimates suggesting it could cost over $100,000 to fully upgrade a single character.
And now Infinity Nikki (2024) walks the same line, visually stunning yet built on the same manipulative architecture.

The slot machine no longer hides in the casino. It lives in your home, wearing a smile.


The counterexamples: those who still honour the pact

Yet not all is lost.
Some creators still believe in the original exchange between maker and player.

Hollow Knight (2017), Celeste (2018), Stardew Valley (2016), Undertale (2015), Hades (2020), and Disco Elysium (2019) all prove that integrity still sells.

These games are complete works, designed to be finished and remembered.
They ask for your time, not your loyalty.
They offer experiences that stay with you long after the credits roll.

You pay once.
You play forever.
That is what honesty looks like.


The real freedom

Paying upfront is not a barrier. It is a declaration of honesty.
When I buy a game, I am saying: I value your art.
When the developer accepts that, they are saying: I value your trust.

That exchange is the foundation of real freedom.
Because true freedom in gaming is not the ability to start for free.
It is the ability to finish without being owned.

Games once invited us to play.
Now they beg us to stay.
I miss when the only thing a game wanted from me was my time.

From Announcement to Manipulation: The Evolution of Advertising

A sepia-toned illustration of a town crier ringing a bell that emits hypnotic spirals, symbolising how early advertising evolved from public announcements into psychological influence.

I grew up in the 1980s, when television advertising still had a kind of charm. I remember the jingles, the mascots, the catchy slogans that managed to lodge themselves in your head for weeks. Even as a child, I knew they were trying to sell me something, but at least they did it with some flair. They felt like part of the entertainment itself.

Something has changed since then. Advertising is no longer something that interrupts culture; it has become the culture. Every space, every platform, and every idle moment now feels colonised by a hidden intention to sell. To understand how we arrived here, it is worth tracing how advertising has evolved from a loud street-side performance to an invisible system of persuasion that shapes our sense of self.

The Loud Salesmen

The earliest form of advertising was brutally honest. Ancient merchants shouted in markets, painted signs on walls, or hung banners above their stalls. When mass printing emerged in the 1800s, advertising became more widespread but no less direct. Newspapers were filled with promises of miracle tonics, soap that made you beautiful, and pills that cured everything from toothache to heartbreak. These were primitive, manipulative, and often fraudulent, but at least you knew what you were looking at. Someone was selling, and you were free to walk away.

The Mad Men Era

The 20th century transformed advertising into an art form. With the rise of radio and television, storytelling became the new language of persuasion. Campaigns no longer sold only a product; they sold an identity, a dream, a way of life. The Coca-Cola Santa Claus, the Marlboro Man, and the perfect suburban family all came from the same creative laboratories.

This was the era of the “ad man,” immortalised in cultural artefacts like Bewitched or later Mad Men. Advertising was portrayed as a glamorous profession. These were the people who didn’t just reflect society; they helped build it. The line between commerce and culture began to blur.

The 80s and 90s: Ads as Entertainment

By the 1980s and 1990s, advertising had taken on a theatrical quality. It was playful, colourful, and memorable. Mascots like Tony the Tiger, slogans like “Just Do It,” and tunes you could hum all day made adverts feel like short pieces of performance art. They were still manipulative, of course, but they wore their intentions openly.

Looking back, perhaps this is why many people from my generation recall old ads with a strange fondness. They were transparent. They worked hard to win your attention rather than simply steal it.

The Weird and Annoying Years

Somewhere in the late 1990s and early 2000s, advertising lost its balance. It became surreal, loud, and deliberately irritating. Think of Crazy Frog, the Budweiser frogs, or the unnerving Burger King mascot. Annoyance became a marketing tool. If something got stuck in your head, even out of frustration, the job was done.

This was the period when “going viral” became a goal before social media even existed. The absurdity was the message.

The Internet Disruption

When the internet arrived, advertising was clumsy but eager. Early banner ads were brightly coloured, flashing boxes that you could easily ignore. But the industry adapted quickly. As data collection improved, advertising became personal. It stopped shouting to the crowd and began whispering to the individual.

This marked the rise of surveillance capitalism. Every click, search, and pause became a data point. You were no longer a passive audience member; you were a psychological profile to be targeted. The salesman had followed you home and was now reading your mind.

The Age of Disguise

By the 2010s, advertising learned to hide in plain sight. Sponsored posts, influencer endorsements, and “native” content made it difficult to tell where information ended and manipulation began. Search engines, news sites, and social platforms quietly filled with ads disguised as genuine results.

South Park once parodied this perfectly with its storyline about intelligent ads (Season 19). It was satire, but it was also prophecy. Today, even image searches are littered with sponsored results. The ad no longer wants to be seen; it wants to be believed.

Culture as Commerce

This is the stage we now find ourselves in. Advertising has stopped orbiting culture and instead absorbed it completely. Everything is for sale, including identity itself.

People no longer ask “What do I like?” but “What do I subscribe to?” We define ourselves through brands and platforms: Apple or Android, Nike or Adidas, Netflix or Disney Plus. Even rebellion is commercialised. You can buy “authenticity,” but only if you can afford the price tag.

Advertising has achieved what no political ideology ever could. It has replaced meaning with marketing and turned culture into a series of brand alignments.

Conclusion: From Persuasion to Colonisation

Advertising began as a voice shouting in the marketplace. It evolved into storytelling, then spectacle, then infiltration. Today it is everywhere and nowhere, woven into the fabric of our reality.

The change that occurred over the last century is more than technological. It is philosophical. Advertising no longer sells products; it sells identities. It shapes our desires before we even know we have them.

Perhaps that is why so many of us feel weary. We are not just tired of being sold to; we are tired of living inside the sale itself.

From Purpose to Profit: How Mass Production Became Mass Deception

A robotic arm on a factory line delicately picks up a glowing incandescent lightbulb resting on a US dollar bill. More identical bulbs and bills line the conveyor belt in the background, with additional robotic arms working in soft focus. The scene is warmly lit, evoking themes of automation, commodification, and industrial production of ideas or innovation.

I remember a moment in therapy years ago that left a deeper mark than the therapist probably intended — or noticed.

I was venting about a reoccurring pattern in my life: buying something I’d genuinely looked forward to, only for it to break, be faulty, or fall short almost immediately. Then the tedious ritual of returning it — complaint forms, awkward phone calls, the emotional cost of having to prove your dissatisfaction. I sighed and said something like, “Why does this kind of thing always happen to me?”

Rather than meeting that statement with empathy or curiosity, the therapist snapped back with a kind of clinical bluntness that still echoes in my memory. She challenged the very validity of my frustration, as though I were being dramatic or irrational. Her goal, I think, was to dismantle the idea that this was something uniquely unfair happening to me.

But as the conversation unfolded, something horrifying dawned on me.
Wait… this happens to everyone?
We all just… accept this? As a normal part of modern life?

That wasn’t a moment of cognitive distortion. That was a moment of clarity.

What I had taken personally — what I thought was just my “bad luck” — was actually a symptom of something bigger, deeper, and disturbingly normalized. We live in a world where disappointment is designed in.

This article is about that world.

It’s about how mass production, once a triumph of innovation and progress, has lost its soul. It’s about how we shifted from making things that mattered to pumping out things that sell — regardless of whether they serve, last, or even work.

It’s about how we moved from purpose to profit — and the very real consequences of that shift. For us. For the workers behind the products. And for the planet.


A Brief History of Mass Production

Mass production, in its earliest form, was born out of noble intent: to meet the needs of a growing population, to make essential goods more affordable and accessible, and to improve the quality of life for everyday people. The Industrial Revolution, beginning in the late 18th century, marked a seismic shift from handcraft to machine-based manufacturing. What once took a skilled artisan hours or days could suddenly be done in minutes.

It wasn’t just about speed. It was about scale. Uniformity. Efficiency. The factory line allowed for interchangeable parts, standardized products, and economic growth on a scale never seen before.

By the early 20th century, Henry Ford’s assembly line had become the emblem of this new era. His Model T wasn’t just a car — it was a revolution in affordability and access. People who never imagined owning personal transportation could now do so. Mass production, at its best, was democratizing.

This promise extended beyond cars: textiles, tools, household goods, medical supplies, and even books and radios became widely available. The standard of living improved for millions. The world, in many ways, felt smaller, more connected, more empowered.

Mass production gave us the modern world.

But as with any great innovation, its shadow was waiting.


The Turning Point

At some point, the machinery that once served us began to reshape us.

Post-World War II, the gears of industry kept turning — but their direction subtly shifted. The focus moved from meeting needs to manufacturing wants. Advertising transformed from a means of informing customers to a mechanism of psychological manipulation. It no longer asked, “What do people need?” but rather, “How can we make them want more?”

This was the beginning of a new ethos: growth for growth’s sake.

Planned obsolescence became a legitimate design strategy. Products were engineered with intentional fragility, so they would break, wear out, or become outdated just fast enough to ensure another sale. Repair culture was actively dismantled, and warranties became ticking clocks. The promise of progress was quietly replaced by the necessity of replacement.

What had once been a marvel of accessibility was now a machine of dependency.

The consumer was no longer the empowered beneficiary of innovation — they were now the target. A data point. A captive audience for infinite cycles of buying, breaking, replacing, repeating. And all the while, the planet groaned under the weight of it.


What It Has Become

Today, mass production is less about delivering value and more about maintaining velocity. Products aren’t designed to serve us long-term — they’re designed to satisfy just enough to sell, then vanish into obsolescence. Many are created with the expectation of failure.

The results are everywhere:

  • Devices with sealed batteries that can’t be replaced
  • Gadgets that can’t be opened without breaking them
  • Appliances that cost more to fix than replace
  • Software updates that cripple older hardware

We’ve normalized a culture of disposability, where the act of buying is no longer about acquiring tools for living, but about participating in an endless loop of consumption. The value of a product is now measured in engagement, not endurance.

Even the illusion of choice is part of the deception. Browse online marketplaces and you’ll see hundreds of identical products under different brand names, all likely sourced from the same anonymous factory. Read the reviews and find fake praise propping up forgettable plastic.

The modern consumer market is a carnival mirror: distorted, disorienting, and reflective only of profit motives.

What once gave us progress, now feeds us clutter. What once promised empowerment, now manufactures dependency. And the harm isn’t just theoretical — it’s measurable, tangible, and mounting.


The Hidden Costs

To the consumer, the cost is emotional as much as financial. We waste time researching, comparing, returning, replacing. We internalize the sense that “nothing works anymore,” and carry the dull weight of lowered expectations. The joy of acquiring something useful has been replaced by the anxiety of wondering how soon it will fail.

To the worker, the cost is brutal. Mass production today relies heavily on exploitative labor: factory workers paid pennies, working long hours in dangerous conditions to meet quotas. Many are children. Many are women with no legal protections. Behind every “affordable” item is a supply chain built on invisible suffering.

To the planet, the cost may be catastrophic. The churn of materials, the energy spent manufacturing and shipping short-lived goods, the toxic waste of e-waste and plastic — it all contributes to ecological collapse. Landfills overflow with gadgets barely used. Oceans are choked with packaging. Resources are mined not for necessity, but for novelty.

And still, the machine demands more.

The system externalizes its costs. The real price isn’t on the price tag — it’s paid by someone else, somewhere else, or by the earth itself.


Why Do We Tolerate This?

Because we’ve been trained to.

It starts early. We learn not to expect things to last. We shrug when they don’t. We’re told that “things break,” that “this is just how it is now.” In place of quality, we’re given convenience. In place of durability, novelty. And in place of dignity, choice paralysis.

We tolerate it because resistance feels exhausting. Complaining means being passed from department to department. Returning an item means printing labels, queueing at drop-off points, repackaging disappointment. And all for what? Another version of the same.

We tolerate it because alternatives are gated by wealth. The high-quality, repairable, ethically sourced options do exist — but they come with a price tag few can afford. The rest are left to swim in the tide of cheap abundance.

We tolerate it because we’ve been gaslit into thinking we’re the problem. If you’re dissatisfied, you must have unrealistic expectations. If you’re struggling, you should have read the fine print. The system has trained us to feel grateful for crumbs and ashamed for wanting bread.

But perhaps most powerfully of all: we tolerate it because everyone else does. And when an entire culture adjusts its expectations downward, it starts to feel reasonable to accept the unreasonable.


Is There a Way Forward?

Not a perfect one. But many small ones.

The most immediate form of resistance is conscious consumption. Buying less, buying better, and researching where things come from. It means resisting impulse, delaying gratification, and sometimes choosing inconvenience in the name of principle. It’s not always possible — but even modest acts of refusal chip away at the machine.

Repair culture is rising again. Right to repair movements are pushing back against corporate monopolies on tools and parts. Online tutorials, fix-it cafes, and community makerspaces are giving people the confidence to reclaim their agency.

Open-source hardware and software offer blueprints for a new model: one based on transparency, modularity, and user freedom. These aren’t just alternatives — they’re acts of defiance.

Legislation matters too. Laws that limit planned obsolescence, mandate repairability, or require environmental responsibility are slowly taking root in some regions. These changes are slow — and often resisted by powerful lobbies — but they matter.

And finally, we can talk about it. Normalize the frustration. Name the absurdity. Share knowledge. Shame the brands that deceive. Celebrate the ones that still make things with care.

Cultural change doesn’t start with mass movements — it starts with a shift in conversation, with refusing to pretend that this is fine.


Conclusion

That moment in therapy still haunts me, not because my therapist revealed some profound truth — but because she didn’t.

She didn’t see the system. She couldn’t validate the pain. She was, in her own way, another casualty of the very machine I was grieving — so used to the dysfunction that she mistook my horror for irrationality.

But I wasn’t broken for feeling betrayed by the world. I was broken because that betrayal was being normalized — and even the spaces meant for healing couldn’t name it.

We’ve been sold a world of limitless convenience at a hidden cost. A culture that tells us to chase the new, discard the old, and never ask who’s paying the real price. A system that demands we tolerate the intolerable, not just with our money, but with our time, our trust, and our quiet resignation.

But awareness is a crack in the machine. It starts with noticing. With saying, “This isn’t normal.” With rejecting the idea that disappointment is an acceptable standard.

It’s not that we expect too much.

It’s that we’ve been trained to expect far too little.


Built-In Tyranny

A dark, atmospheric digital painting of a modern smartphone encaged by iron bars and heavy chains. The phone rests on a stone surface, with a glowing red fingerprint scanner symbol on its screen. A rusty USB-C cable wraps around the scene like a shackle. In the background, shadowy, ghostlike human figures loom in a dimly lit gothic interior, evoking a sense of imprisonment and surveillance.

We were promised liberation.
Sleek devices that fit in our pockets, connect us to the world, and put the power of creation in our hands. But instead, many of us now live in quiet submission to machines that seem to serve corporate masters more than their owners.

Our phones and laptops were once portals of personal freedom. Now they behave more like obedient jailers — installing apps we didn’t ask for, blocking accessories we bought with our own money, updating themselves while we sleep, and feeding our data to companies we never consented to.

Worse still, the more you rely on these devices — for work, communication, creativity, or accessibility — the tighter the leash becomes. And for neurodivergent users, whose very functioning may depend on predictability, clarity, and user agency, these constraints are not just frustrating — they can be disabling.

This isn’t just bad design.
It’s a philosophy: one that says you don’t really own the tools you buy.
Welcome to the era of built-in tyranny.


1. The Illusion of Ownership

You buy a phone. You expect it to work with whatever charger or headphones you already own. But surprise: it demands an official accessory. Or worse, it just won’t work at all.

Many devices now contain hardware-level restrictions that reject third-party gear unless it’s certified by the manufacturer — which often means more expensive and less sustainable.
Example: Apple’s Lightning cable ecosystem often blocks uncertified accessories, while newer MacBooks only support external displays via specific USB-C docks.

On the software side, entire ecosystems are locked down.
Samsung Galaxy phones ship with unremovable Facebook apps.
Amazon Fire tablets restrict app choices to their own store.
You’re not choosing an experience; you’re renting a branded enclosure.


2. Forced Updates, Feature Loss, and UX Hostility

Updates used to be a good thing. Now, they’re Trojan horses. You wake up one day to find your device has rearranged your menus, removed your favorite feature, or is running slower because your old hardware can’t handle the new bloat.

Examples:

  • Many Windows 10 users were forcibly upgraded to Windows 11 despite preferring the previous layout.
  • Google Nest devices lost key features like local device control after updates.
  • Instagram moved the post button to prioritize shopping.
  • Spotify now auto-plays algorithmic tracks after your playlist ends.

For neurodivergent users, this is deeply destabilizing.
Predictable routines become shifting sands.
Custom workarounds break.
The cognitive load to re-learn an interface you never asked to change can be overwhelming.


3. Vendor Lock-In and the War on Repair

Remember when you could pop open a laptop or phone, swap out the battery, maybe upgrade the storage? Now, you need specialized tools just to open the case — and even if you succeed, you might find parts refuse to work unless the manufacturer “pairs” them via software.

Examples:

  • Apple requires calibration for many replacement parts like screens and batteries.
  • HP printers have rejected third-party ink cartridges via firmware updates.
  • Tesla has remotely disabled features like Autopilot on used vehicles.
  • John Deere tractors require proprietary software access, blocking DIY repairs.

For many neurodivergent users, the ability to tinker and customize is part of how they function. Taking that away is more than just annoying — it’s disempowering.


4. Surveillance and Consent Illusions

Your device is always listening. Your apps are always tracking. Settings may appear customizable, but they often hide the truth.

Examples of “dark patterns” include:

  • Confirmshaming: “No thanks, I prefer boring content.”
  • Pre-checked boxes for mailing lists or data collection.
  • Buttons where “Accept” is bright and big, but “Decline” is small and grey.
  • Amazon’s multi-page unsubscribe process.
  • Google’s multi-click cookie opt-out.

For neurodivergent users especially, these deceptive experiences create anxiety and a feeling of being manipulated. The illusion of control is a form of psychological strain.


5. The Neurodivergent Toll

For many neurodivergent people, consistency is survival.
We rely on routines and predictability to function. When updates override our settings, change layouts, or disable our workarounds, it can throw everything out of balance.

Sensory overload from flashy animations, auto-playing videos, or constant notifications compounds the stress.

Many ND users report:

  • Updates that reset accessibility settings
  • UI layouts that defy logic or require too many steps
  • Changes that break assistive tools or workflows

This isn’t just a usability issue — it’s a form of systemic inaccessibility.


6. A Glimpse at Alternatives

Some hopeful alternatives include:

  • Librem 5 and PinePhone: Linux-powered open-source smartphones
  • /e/OS or LineageOS: De-Googled Android systems
  • Right to Repair: Supported by groups like iFixit
  • Linux laptops and mod-friendly systems

They’re not always easy or accessible to everyone, but they do prove that different models are possible — ones that respect the user’s right to own, modify, and control.


7. Conclusion: Know Your Shackles

Built-in tyranny doesn’t arrive with jackboots.
It arrives with glossy screens, sleek packaging, and biometric locks.
It whispers, “for your convenience,” while tightening its grip.

If you can’t fix it, can’t change it, and can’t control it —
Then you are not the owner.
You are the product.

If we want a more ethical, inclusive, and truly empowering digital world, we must start by naming the shackles that come standard — and imagining a world where they don’t.