There’s this great Andy Warhol quote you’ve likely read before: “I think everybody should like everybody.” You can buy posters and plates with pictures of Warhol, looks a lot like the cover of a Belle& Sebastian album, with that phrase plastered across his face in Helvetica. But the full quote, taken from a 1963 interview in Art News, is a great description of how we interact on social media today.
Warhol : Someone said that Brecht wanted everybody to think alike. I crave everybody to think alike. But Brecht wanted to do it through Communism, in a manner that is. Russia is doing it under government. It’s happening here all by itself without being under a strict government; so if it’s working without trying, why can’t it work without being Communist? Everybody appears alike and acts alike, and we’re will become more and more that way. I think everybody should be a machine. I think everybody should like everybody.
Art News : Is that what Pop Art is all about?
Warhol : Yes. It’s liking things.
Art News : And liking things is like being a machine?
Warhol : Yes, because you do the same thing every time. You do it over and over again .
The like and the favorite are the new metrics of success–very literally. Not only are they ego-feeders for the stuff we put online as individuals, but advertisers track their campaigns on Facebook by how often they are liked. A recent New York Times story, a krill oil advertising campaign lays bare how much the like matters to advertisers. Liking is an economic act.
I like everything. Or at least I did, for 48 hours. Literally everything Facebook sent my route, I liked–even if I detested it. I decided to embark on a campaign of awareness penchant, to see how it would affect what Facebook showed me. I know this sounds like a stunt( and it was) but it was also genuinely merely an open-ended experimentation. I wasn’t sure how long I’d keep it up (48 hours was all I could stand) or what I’d learn (perhaps nothing.)
See, Facebook employs algorithms to decide what shows up in your feed. It isn’t merely a procession of sequential updates from your best friend and the things you’ve expressed those who are interested in. In 2014 the News Feed is a highly-curated presentation, delivered to you by a complicated formula based on the actions you take on the site, and across the web. I wanted to see how my Facebook experience would change if I constantly rewarded the robots inducing these decisions for me, if I continually said, “good job, robot, I like this.” I also decided I’d only do this on Facebook itself–trying to reach every Like button I came across on the open web is too daunting. But even when I retained the experimentation to the site itself, the results were dramatic.
There is a very concrete kind of Facebook messaging, designed to get you to interact. And if you take the bait, you’ll be shown it ad nauseam.
The first thing I liked was Living Social–my friend Jay had liked it before me and it was sitting among the priorities of my feed. I liked two more updates from pals. So far, so good. But the fourth thing I encountered was something I didn’t really like. I signify, I don’t truly like Living Social either, whatever the hell that is, but who cares. But this fourth thing was something I sort of actively detested. A bad joke–or at least a dumb one. Oh well. I liked it anyway.
One thing I had to decide right away was what to do about the related items that appear after you’ve liked something. Let’s say you like a story about cows that you determine on Modern Farmer . Facebook will immediately present you with four more options to like things below that cow story, “relateds” in Facebook parlance. Probably more narratives about cows or agriculture.
Relateds speedily became a problem, because as soon as you like one, Facebook replaces it with another. So as soon as I liked the four associates below a story, it immediately gave me four more. And then four more. And then four more. And then four more. I speedily recognized I’d be stuck in a related loop-the-loop for infinity if I retained this up. So I settled on a new regulation: I would like the first four associates Facebook indicates me, but no more.
Sometimes, penchant is counterintuitive. My friend Hillary posted a picture of her toddler Pearl, with bruises on her face. It was titled “Pearl vs. the concrete.” I didn’t like it at all! It was sad. Commonly, it would be the kind of News Feed item that would obligate me to leave a comment, instead of making the little thumbs up button. Oh well. Like. The only hour I declined to like something was when a friend posted about the death of a relative. I merely had a fatality in my family last week. It was a bridge I wasn’t going to cross.
But there was still plenty more to like. I liked one of my cousin’s updates, which he had re-shared from Joe Kennedy, and was subsequently beseiged with Kennedys to like( plus a Clinton and a Shriver ). I liked Hootsuite. I liked The New York Times , I liked Coupon Clipinista. I liked something from a friend I haven’t spoken to in 20 years–something about her kid, camp and a snake. I liked Amazon. I liked fucking Kohl’s. I liked Kohl’s for you.
My News Feed took on an entirely new character in a surprisingly short quantity of hour. After checking in and liking a bunch of stuff during the course of an hour, there were no human beings in my feed anymore. It became about brands and messaging, rather than humans with messages.
Likewise, content mills rose to the top. Virtually my entire feed was given over to Upworthy and the Huffington Post. As I went to bed that first night and scrolled through my News Feed, the updates I saw were( in order ): Huffington Post, Upworthy, Huffington Post, Upworthy, a Levi’s ad, Space.com, Huffington Post, Upworthy, The Verge, Huffington Post, Space.com, Upworthy, Space.com.
Also, as I went to bed, I remember reckoning “Ah, crap. I have to like something about Gaza, ” as I reach the Like button on a post with a pro-Israel message.
By the next morning, the items in my News Feed had moved very, very far to the right. I’m offered the chance to like the 2nd Amendment and some sort of anti-immigrant page. I like them both. I like Ted Cruz. I like Rick Perry. The Conservative Tribune comes up again, and again, and again in my News Feed. I get to learn its very special syntax. Usually it moved something like this 😛 TAGEND
A sentence recounting some controversial news. Good!
A sentence explaining why this is good.
A call to action, often purposing with a few questions?
Once I see this pattern, I start noticing it everywhere. SF Gate, the San Francisco Chronicle ‘ s web existence, employs a similar tactic. It is a very concrete kind of Facebook messaging, designed to get you to interact. And if you take the bait, you’ll be shown it ad nauseam.
I was also struck by how different my feeds were on mobile and the desktop, even when viewed at the same hour. By the end of day one, I noticed that on mobile, my feed was almost completely devoid of human content. I was simply presented with the chance to like narratives from various websites, and various other ads. Yet on the desktop–while it’s still largely branded content–I continue to see things from my friends. On that little bitty screen, where real-estate is so valuable, Facebook’s robots decided that the way to keep my attention is by hiding the person or persons and only indicating me the stuff that other machines have pumped out. Weird.
As day one rolled into day two, I began dreading going to Facebook. It had become a temple of provocation. Simply as my News Feed had floated further and further right, so too did it float further and further left. Rachel Maddow, Raw Story, Mother Jones, Daily Kos and all sort of other leftie stuff was interspersed with items that are so far to the right I’m nearly afraid to like them for dread of purposing up on some sort of watch list.
Stop what you’re doing and look at this newborn that appears precisely like Jay-Z.
This is a problem much bigger than Facebook. It reminded me of what can go wrong in culture, and why we now often talk at each other instead of to each other. We set up our political and social filter bubbles and they reinforce themselves–the things we read and watch have become hyper-niche and cater to our specific interests. We go down rabbit holes of special interests until we’re lost in the queen’s garden, cursing everyone above ground.
But maybe worse than the fractious political tints my feed took on was how deeply stupid it became. I’m given the chance to like a Buzzfeed post of some guy dancing, and another that asks Which Titanic Character Are You? A third Buzzfeed post informs me that “Katy Perry’s Backup Dancer is the Mancandy You Deserve.” According to New York publication, I am “officially old” because Malia Obama went to Lollapalooza( like !) and CNN tells me “Husband Explores His Man-ternal Instincts” alongside a photo of a shirtless boy cupping his nipples. A cloud that looks like a penis. Stop what you’re doing and look at this newborn that appears precisely like Jay-Z. My feed was indicating virtually only the worst kind of tripe that all of us in the media are complicit in churning out yet is advisable to be deeply ashamed of. Sensational garbage. I liked it all.
While I expected that what I saw might change, what I never expected was the impact my behavior would have on my friends’ feeds. I retained reckoning Facebook would rate-limit me, but instead it developed increasingly ravenous. My feed become a cavalcade of brands and politics and as I interacted with them, Facebook dutifully reported this to all my friends and followers.
That first night, a small little circle with a dog’s head popped up in the corner of my phone. A chat head, from Facebook’s Messenger software! The dog turned out to be my old WIRED editor, John Bradley. “Have you been hacked, ” he wanted to know. The next morning, my friend Helena sent me a message. “My fb feed is literally full of articles you like, it’s pretty funny, ” she tells. “No friend stuff, merely Honan likes.” I responded with a thumbs up. This continued throughout the experimentation. When I posted a status update to Facebook say about “I like you, ” I heard from numerous people that my weirdo activity had been overrunning their feeds. “My newsfeed is 70 percent things Mat has liked, ” noted my pal Heather. Eventually, I would hear from someone who worked at Facebook, who had noticed my activity and wanted to connect me with the company’s PR department.
But I’d already put a stop to it by then anyway, because it was just too awful. I tried counting how much stuff I’d liked by appearing in my activity log, but it was too overwhelming. I’d added more than a thousand things to my Likes page–most of which were loathsome or at best banal. By liking everything, I became Facebook into a place where there was nothing I liked. To be honest, I really didn’t like it. I didn’t like what I had done.