Cultural rot & reversal
We finally gave the sickness a name. Three of them, actually.
“Brain rot” captured the fog that follows an evening of infinite scroll.
“Enshittification” diagnosed what happens when platforms squeeze users until the experience collapses under ads and bait.
“Slop” named the algorithmic gruel of recycled memes, AI oddities, and engagement spam that drowns anything nourishing.
2024 spoke plainly about the problem — which is usually how real change begins.
Because while we were labeling the rot, something else was happening: people started opting out. Not a dramatic delete-your-account revolution, but a quiet, stubborn return to culture that feels like it has weight.
Look around. Game nights are back. Young adults are meeting for chess, mahjong, backgammon — rituals that ask for presence and give focus in return. Small clubs are forming offline. Event calendars show a rise in local scenes and analog joy.
The search for belonging is pulling people toward older, structured communities: lodges, volunteer chapters, faith groups, anywhere ritual replaces refresh. It isn’t nostalgia — it’s texture. The difference between being part of something and being adjacent to everything.
The aspiration map is redrawing itself too. Millennials and Gen Z are townsizing — trading status for seasons, prestige for peace, splashy consumption for slower lives that feel owned, not rented from an algorithm. Glamour has shifted from late-night Ubers to Saturday markets; from flexing purchases to building porches.
Even online, resistance is visible. De-influencing is trending: creators telling you what not to buy, celebrating repair, repetition, and reuse. If the feed is a mall, people are walking past the windows with wallets closed.
Parents and policymakers are also drawing firmer lines around kids — age checks, curfews, school-day bans — small but significant signals that “always on” isn’t neutral for developing minds.
All of this amounts to a cultural diet reset — a craving for full-fat culture. Not maximalist, but rich with depth and patience. Reading a long book, cooking a family recipe, hosting a weekly game night or choir practice: none of it scales, and that’s the point. It’s hard to enshittify what requires attention.
What It Means for Brands
For businesses — especially challenger brands trying to outsmart when they cannot outspend — this shift is both warning and invitation.
The warning: culture now has antibodies to pandering. Meme-chasing and trend-riding feel thin because they are thin.
The invitation: make something that would be missed. A story, a tool, a durable product, a community you host rather than harvest. Build for your truest fans; accept that depth beats rented reach. Real brand building isn’t about noise — it’s about meaning that compounds.
If 2024 named the problem, 2025 can practice the cure: less spectacle, more craft. Fewer feeds, more tables. Limits that make room.
Culture decays when we outsource our taste to timelines. It regenerates when we reclaim attention and put it where it belongs — on people, places, and pursuits that age well.
Maybe that’s the quiet revolution ahead: not logging off, but plugging back into real life with intention.
