There’s a saying that’s crept into the modern lexicon with the same smug inevitability as a Facebook memory of a haircut you regret posting: if you’re not paying for the product, you are the product.
It’s the kind of phrase people like to quote over coffee as though they invented it, usually after deactivating their social media account and surviving a whole three days before crawling back because they missed the likes.
But behind the glib smugness is a very real truth, one that has everything to do with how the internet is funded, why your attention span now rivals that of a gnat, and why your phone knows you’re considering a new mattress before you do.
Let’s start with the basics. Free services aren’t really free. Google doesn’t let you check traffic for nothing out of the goodness of its silicon heart. Facebook isn’t offering you endless photos of other people’s children because it thinks you need more joy. These platforms make money because they are very, very good at watching you. And they’re even better at selling what they’ve learned.
You type “best budget sun cream” into a search bar and suddenly you’re being followed around the internet by sponsored posts about SPF 50, wide-brimmed hats and ‘beach must-haves’. It’s not magic. It’s a multi-billion-dollar system of surveillance, psychology and ad tech. The real customers here aren’t you, they’re the advertisers lining up to buy your digital footprint.
What’s especially clever, or sinister depending on your caffeine intake, is how these platforms use psychology to keep you scrolling. They rely on intermittent variable rewards (a term borrowed from behavioural psychology), where you’re never quite sure when you’ll get a ‘like’, a juicy DM or a funny reel. It’s the same principle that makes slot machines addictive. Add a few push notifications, a hit of dopamine from digital validation, and suddenly you’re twenty minutes into watching videos of cats yelling into bins and wondering where your evening went.
And then there’s the data. You may think you’re just browsing. The algorithm thinks you’re having a personality test. Hovering over a video, clicking on a link, even pausing mid-scroll to squint at someone’s holiday photo; it all tells a story. Platforms use that information to feed you more of what you seem to like, whether that’s cottagecore content, conspiracy theories or women dressed like anime foxes. The algorithm doesn’t judge. It simply serves. The more you engage, the more you’re shown, and the more time you spend online, the more ads you see. Simple, effective, quietly dystopian.
Real-world consequences? Take TikTok. A teenager watches one or two videos about weight loss, and suddenly their For You Page is a parade of calorie counting, body checking and ‘what I eat in a day’ content. The platform isn’t deliberately evil, it just noticed what held their attention and gave them more of it. But when the algorithm’s only goal is engagement, it doesn’t care whether the content is uplifting or damaging, true or wildly misleading. It just wants your eyes, and if possible, your soul.
It’s not all doom. Some platforms do try to offer transparency and control. Cookie consent banners now litter the internet like fallen leaves. But let’s be honest: most people click ‘accept all’ faster than they can find the remote during an ad break. And even when we do care about privacy, convenience wins. No one really wants to read forty-three pages of terms and conditions before uploading a cat photo.
So what can we do? Well, short of throwing your phone into a canal and joining an off-grid farming commune (tempting), it’s mostly about awareness. Understand the trade you’re making. If something is free, you’re likely paying with your data, your time or your attention. Ask yourself whether that’s a price you’re happy with.
And maybe, just maybe, next time a platform offers you a personalised experience, remember: it’s not personal. It’s business. And you, darling, are the inventory.
