A Critique of the Attention Economy Designed to Get Your Attention

Every post is bait. — In the good old days, a (good) piece of writing used to be a nicely packaged, well-organized (or aesthetically pleasing) thought. The writer exported (a version of) it from their mind, and the reader imported (a version of) it into theirs. These days, however, writing means not much more and not much less than content generation. People mainly write to grow an audience, grab attention, sell. The reader is the fish; what they write is bait. There’s nothing after the bait for the poor reader. He’s been fished; next, he’ll be fried and eaten.

Writing is advertisement — In view of the fact that “good” writing is now measured by the number of purchases, subscriptions, followers, comments, and likes one gains, it can be said that all posts are advertisements. All content generation belongs to marketing, whose survival depends on ROI, and whose return on ad spend must, sooner or later, exceed 100%. Every word, every image, every frame, every idea now belongs to — or is governed by the mechanisms of — the culture industry. Every post is a (self-)branding activity… although sometimes they come disguised as philosophy, literature, or art.

It’s a puddle, not an ocean — Depth and all of its close relatives are sacrificed on the altar of marketing. At best, there’s the appearance or the promise of depth. When you come to dive deeper, however, you’re always disappointed by how shallow the water is. The water barely reaches your knees, and the children have pissed in it. Just because you cannot see the seafloor, it doesn’t mean the water’s deep.

A following of fools. — To succeed in this day and age, one’s work better not address intelligent individuals. Since there are so few of them, converting intelligent individuals into paying clients is often an unprofitable endeavor, especially on the internet, even if their conversion sometimes means bigger ticket sizes. One must evoke Schopenhauer’s insult here but use it as a tip: “He who writes for fools always finds a large public.” And since, in our time, the larger your audience, the better, this means, from a financial standpoint, you’d be a fool if you didn’t write for fools.

Engagement farming. — Online, there are two types of posts: the type that is written to farm engagement, the type that isn’t. Unfortunately, a large majority of the posts fall into the former type, where one expresses what’s expected to be liked (or receive comments). One must ask himself, “Am I moving the audience, or does the audience move me?” In Human, All Too Human, Nietzsche writes something close to this. He says, “How small is the importance of followers we first grasp when we have ceased to be the followers of our followers.” In our times, this means that, even if one has a large number of followers, it’s better to post as if he has none, risking the number of followers to drop. (Unfortunately, the world works the other way: people post more of what already works.)

Everyone is stupider than you. — In one of his essays, Italo Calvino writes that “literature must presuppose a public that is more cultured, and more cultured than the writer himself.” Content generation, as we saw, does the opposite. To get views and shares, it must constantly presuppose a public that knows nothing. It must consider everyone stupid. The more advanced the piece, the smaller the reward. (Think of a bell curve. The worst writers and the best writers get the least engagement. Why? Because good writing is no longer considered good, it gets the same results as bad writing. The algorithm loves mediocre content with good hooks.) That is why there’s barely any literature in literary novels these days. The main goal of publishing houses is to sell, and the main aim for writers is also to sell, and since to sell means writing for a large public… well? It means you better write for fools and explain everything like they’re twelve. To presuppose a public that is less cultured, and less cultured than the writer himself, then, is the way to success. And, therefore, the way to success is… anti-literature.

Something to say. — To write in good style, says Schopenhauer, you need to have something to say first. And to have something to say, you need to have spent time thinking. Unfortunately, the Content Generation Generation (CGG) writes for the sake of writing — or, more precisely, the CGG generates content for the sake of generating content and, of course, to eventually sell something. There are no traces of thinking anywhere, and most of the things one comes across online are recycled mediocrity. Writers only pretend to be saying important things. It’s all performative thinking and pretense. Schopenhauer writes: “For example, I have just read in a new book: ‘I have not written so as to increase the number of existing books.’ This says the opposite of what the writer intended, and is moreover nonsense.”


This post was originally published on my Substack on November 9, 2026, under the title “Why Everything You Read Online is Bait (Including This Title)“.

When Love Stands in the Way of Progress

Every other year or so, I end up reading E. M. Forster’s short story called “The Other Side of the Hedge.” Although it’s more than a hundred years old, it’s as if it were written yesterday, addressing hustle culture and, generally, all the other success-first ideologies of today. It questions our compulsion to keep moving forward no matter what in order to achieve something. It is one of those stories that makes us stop for a moment and think about the hamster wheel we’ve been put on. It asks us to cool down and have a refreshing drink. And in that pause, we find the space to raise important questions again, which had dust settle down on them ever since we graduated from university and entered the workforce.

Why are we conditioned to worship productivity?
Is what we call progress really progress or a simulacrum of progress?

…

One of my friends is so addicted to work that spending time with his family feels like a waste of time for him. All he wants to do is “keep building” his body, his business, etc. He never says it like that, of course, but you can infer it when you read between the lines of what he speaks. When we’re having a beer, he (almost exclusively) likes to palaver about his adventures at the workplace, and he’ll talk and talk as a toddler babbles in his crib after a long day when it’s his bedtime. And whenever he talks about family matters, it’s always how time with the wife and kids, chores, and errands kept him from what he wanted to achieve during the week, the month, the year. It’s as if, using different words, he’s always saying, “Only if I didn’t have a family, I’d attain my dreams.”

My friend, as you see, is a proud man who has his eyes set on business objectives; everything else is an obstacle getting in his way. Although there was a time when he claimed that getting married and raising children he loved was the dream that he was after…

It’s funny how what you do turns you into someone who does that thing. My friend worked hard to start a family. Then, his family became the thing that kept him from working hard, which was something he initially did to achieve the initial dream — starting a family. He worked hard for such a long period of time that he became a person who works hard for no reason but vaguely defined progress.

And now, it’s like he’s constantly trying to “get back on track” because life interfered with business, leisure interrupted work, love stood in the way of progress…

Some people (have been programmed to) believe that the good life is achieved when, in reality, the good life is practiced. Improving your life materially is often necessary for most of us, but it’s only one part of the game. We must also be present spiritually to reap the joys we have planted.

What Killed Art

In a forgotten pub, a Gen Z and a Millennial sat at the bar side by side on bar stools. The Gen Z’s bar stool squeaked every time he moved; the one the Millennial sat on didn’t. There was no electricity, but the night sky was clear, stars shone, and the moon was full, so, although minimal, enough moonlight entered the pub through the broken window behind them. The bartender was a skeleton wrapped in spider webs, but he still served them drinks somehow. The Gen Z was having his fifth Cognac and Coke, but the Millennial’s first pint of beer remained untouched.

“I was born to be an artist,” the Gen Z said. “But now it looks like art died before my time.”

“Don’t take it too hard,” the Millennial said, smiling. “Art died before my time, too. Much before my time, in fact. And it’s not just art that died. They also said that God is dead, philosophy is dead, and they even claimed that love is dead.”

“So, you’re saying that, basically, everything that once made us human is either dead or dying.”

“Unfortunately.”

“But who killed art? Who killed God? Who killed philosophy? Who killed love?”

“You want me to give you the names of the murderers, but I can only give you the names of those who wrote the obituaries. I’ll name them: Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, for instance, announced the death of art; Friedrich Nietzsche announced the death of God; Stephen Hawking announced the death of philosophy; Byung-Chul Han announced the death of love. And I’m sure there are others who made the same or similar announcements. Journalists outnumber newsworthy events. But does it really matter who found the corpses? I have a feeling you don’t really care. I can see it in your eyes.”

“You’re right. I don’t care,” the Gen Z said. “What I want to know is the cause of death of art. What killed it? Can’t you tell me, please, who killed it?”

“Hm, well, the answer is more depressing than art’s funeral,” said the Millennial. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Then, let me tell it to you as it is. There are no murderers. No killers except time. After a long battle with history and technological progress, art passed away in her sleep of natural causes.”

The Gen Z let out a long sigh and said, “If what you are saying is true, then how come there’s still so much art, religion, philosophy, and love in the world?”

“Ah! That’s an excellent question,” the Millennial said. “But it’s the wrong question.”

“What?” the Gen Z was surprised. “Why?”

“I really wish I could spend more time with you in this forgotten place,” the Millennial suddenly rose from his place. “You may be onto something here, so I encourage you to keep looking. But I must now disappear.”


This piece was first published on my Substack on July 6, 2026.