Every so often, a strange little corner of the web bubbles up with the “Dead Internet Theory.” The idea is simple, unsettling, and oddly compelling: much of what we see online isn’t created by people at all, but by bots, algorithms, and scripts endlessly churning out content for other bots to consume. It suggests the internet as we know it has quietly withered, replaced by a kind of digital hall of mirrors.
It’s an exaggeration, of course—or at least, I hope it is. People are still out there, writing, sharing, laughing, posting photos of their cats and dogs. Yet when you scroll through endless clickbait headlines, lifeless “engagement” posts, or soulless product reviews, it’s hard not to wonder if some of it really is ghost-written by machines, stitched together purely to keep the ad revenue flowing.
What I find most interesting about the Dead Internet Theory isn’t whether it’s literally true, but the unease it touches on: this feeling that the internet has become less human. That the messy, weird, handmade web has been buried beneath layers of optimisation, automation, and algorithmic sludge.
And maybe that’s why I find myself drawn back to slower, simpler corners of the web: personal sites, newsletters, RSS feeds. The places where you can still hear an actual voice behind the words. Where the internet feels alive not because it’s buzzing with activity, but because it’s grounded in real people sharing things they care about.
The Dead Internet Theory may be more myth than reality, but like all myths, it says something true: if we don’t protect the human side of the web, it can feel dead, even while it’s still technically alive. And perhaps the way to resist is beautifully simple: write more, share more, connect more—remind the internet that it’s not a machine, but us.