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But like the resilient Byzantines who rebuilt Constantinople after its brutal sack by Crusaders in 1204, I keep trying and growing. Realizing that fiction’s complexities might not be for me (yet), I’ve turned to my strengths: technology and history.

There will be a lot of those historical references.

This shift sparked an idea to compare ancient empires, from Sumer to Austria-Hungary, with modern tech giants. The business daily Handelsblatt summarizes our current digital landscape accurately:

“Google knows more about you and me than the KGB, Stasi or Gestapo ever dreamed of. Naturally the comparison is absurd, but if Google is some kind of Big Brother, then it is totalitarianism of a sweet, soft kind. This Big Brother doesn’t want to do anything evil, just help us. And help itself – by throwing all of this collected data onto the market.”

This book isn’t an attempt to attack big tech. In fact, I like these companies quite a lot. They’re like the East India Company of the 18th century—deeply influential, often beneficial, yet wielding power that makes one pause.

Historically, all empires had a simple check on overreach—populace resistance. When Louis XVI almost bankrupted France due to funding the American Revolution and his court’s lavish spending, the people, driven by empty stomachs and pamphlets, stormed the Bastille.

It was their version of a one-star app review, but with more urgency.

But how do we resist an app? You can’t guillotine a corporation… And, even if you could, barbaric methods of conflict resolution should be left to the ancient times.

If a beloved tech product turns sinister, do you fight by smashing your phone? Leaving a scathing review?

In ancient times, the dynamics were clearer. Easter Islanders, or Rapa Nui, obsessively carved Moai statues, depleting their forests. But without trees for boats, isolated by distance and natural disasters like the Little Ice Age, their resource-driven society collapsed.

Today’s tech firms still consume resources for electricity, but unlike the Rapa Nui who traded wood for status symbols, they extract something far more precious—user data.

Never have empires amassed so much information about their subjects… as we willingly provide this access because the alternative seems to be digital and physical isolation.

Daily, I’m indifferent to how much data a company collects about me. But zooming out, these tech firms resemble digital empires, integrated into modern superpowers.

It makes me wonder: is there a pattern to these digital empires’ potential downfall? Can history offer insights? How close are they to the Dutch East India Company that got too big, too fast, too corrupt, too mismanaged—poof—gone in 1799.

Are we living in a vast, market-driven bubble where imperialism is fueled by data trading and no central base of operations? Consider the Hanseatic League, a network of merchant guilds that dominated Northern European trade from the 13th to 17th centuries. They had no capital, no territory—just information. Knowing what was selling where gave them power over kings. Today’s tech giants, with server farms scattered globally, mirror this decentralized empire, their strength lying not in physical domains but in the data they harvest and trade.

In the 19th century, the British used opium to subdue China. Today, it’s algorithms engineered for addiction. Digital products ‘bombard’ us with dopamine-triggering notifications until we’ve surrendered our attention. Just as opium sedated a nation, today’s algorithms are finely tuned to keep us scrolling, swiping, and sharing.

Perhaps these comfortable addictions to digital products, on which I rely myself, have created empires that transcend the ability to collapse. As long as our digital “circuses”—be it Instagram’s endless feed or YouTube’s autoplay—keep us satiated, these empires might evade the historical pattern of rise and fall. We’re too engrossed in our digital coliseums to storm any Bastilles.

Also, by examining ancient civilizations rather than focusing on modernity, it becomes more comfortable for me to write. Many global powers view history lessons as tools of cultural propaganda, and attempts to decode it can be seen as attacks on current regimes. To the point, where I’m not comfortable providing recent references.

This is why I’m steering clear of recent history, using the safe distance of ancient empires to examine today’s digital dynasties.

One-Sentence Summary

“Empires Beyond Collapse” draws parallels between the fall of ancient empires and the decline of modern tech giants, inviting readers to ponder whether today’s digital behemoths have truly overcome the historical patterns of collapse.

Book Synopsis

In the early 5th century, a Roman legionary stands watch over a flickering campfire, his thoughts interrupted by the distant sound of approaching footsteps. He turns to see a shadowy figure emerge from the darkness—his comrade, clutching a scroll. “It’s a message from the Emperor,” the comrade whispers, “the Visigoths are upon us.” As the camp descends into chaos, the legionary realizes that their once-mighty Empire is on the brink of collapse, much like Carthage centuries before. The sacking of Rome in 410 AD by Alaric is not just a military defeat but a symbol of an empire crumbling under its own weight—dwindling tax revenues, thinning legion ranks, and economic turmoil.

If Julius Caesar had access to modern tools of surveillance and control, his grip on power might have lasted beyond the historical confines. Imagine if instead of military conquest, the Roman Empire expanded through digital dominance. No need for the brutal suppression of the Gallic revolt—instead, every Gaul’s communication would be monitored, every dissenting thought flagged. Caesar’s spies, armed with data from a vast network like PRISM or Echelon, could pinpoint troublemakers with the precision of drone strikes, rather than resorting to the mass enslavement that followed his victory at Alesia.

Today, tech giants wield immense influence over our digital lives, driven by the pursuit of market share and user metrics. Their algorithms exploit human desires and insecurities with computational precision, surpassing the capabilities of ancient despots. Unlike figurehead rulers of old empires, tech giants are malleable and decentralized, resembling the Byzantine bureaucracy more than the Western Roman Empire. Their dominance is sustained through consumer choice and market dynamics—a soft power that would have intrigued Machiavelli.

The fall of a digital empire is not as dramatic as the violent end of ancient civilizations. It has no single keeps or legislative chambers to capture, no aqueducts to sever. Its resilience recalls the Parthian Empire, whose decentralized structure allowed it to absorb invasions. Tech giants operate in a realm of infinite data, consuming vast amounts of energy to harvest our digital lives into a new commodity. Our identities, behaviors, and connections are repackaged into profiles, creating a data-driven empire that dwarfs even the most ambitious colonial ventures.

Digital empires wield the ability to influence and addict on a global scale, much like the British East India Company’s opium trade in 19th-century China. Success is measured in financial valuation on the stock market, not territorial control or intellectual legacies. As we marvel at tech’s progress, we may be unknowingly sacrificing something profoundly human, just as the Aztecs sacrificed their own people to appease gods they believed granted them power.

“Empires Beyond Collapse” draws parallels between ancient civilizations and modern superpowers repeating oppressive patterns with new tools. In our digital age, tech corporations shape society and control narratives, allowing governments to focus on harder forms of power. The similarities between ancient regimes and big tech are examined through the lenses of the Tragedy of the Commons, Enshittification, and Progress Paralysis.

History teaches that unchecked authority can be dismantled through uprising or military defeat. But how does one depose a power existing primarily in code and cloud servers, influencing billions through algorithms? It’s a far cry from the visible fall of ancient regimes—cities besieged, royal lines extinguished. A digital downfall may be far more insidious—a quiet rot of once-vibrant societies, democracy eroding bit by bit, without a single shot fired, much like how the Byzantine Empire gradually faded through a series of slow, almost imperceptible declines.

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Throughout history, the concept of the “Tragedy of the Commons” has played out in various civilizations and industries, from the collapse of ancient empires to the depletion of natural resources. This idea, first articulated by British economist William Forster Lloyd in the 19th century and later popularized by ecologist Garrett Hardin, describes how individuals acting in their self-interest can ultimately destroy shared resources, leading to collective ruin. As we explore the rise and fall of the Khmer Empire, the Minoan Civilization, the inhabitants of Easter Island, and the Newfoundland fishing industry, a pattern emerges: the perception of abundance and the lack of regulation leads to overexploitation.

In the digital age, we face a similar challenge. The rapid growth of technology and the seemingly limitless potential of data have created a new kind of commons, one that is vulnerable to the same forces that brought down ancient civilizations and once-thriving industries.

The lessons of history are clear: when individuals and organizations prioritize their interests over the health of the shared resources they depend on, tragedy inevitably follows. From the disappearance of Easter Island’s once-lush forests to the collapse of the Newfoundland cod fishery, the consequences of unchecked exploitation are dire and far-reaching.

Collapse of the Minoan Civilization

The Minoan civilization, which thrived on the island of Crete from approximately 3000 to 1100 B.C.E., is a fascinating example of how environmental mismanagement can lead to the collapse of a once-prosperous society. The Minoans, known for their impressive palace complexes, vibrant art, and advanced trade networks, ultimately fell victim to their own short-sighted practices, particularly deforestation. This is a classic example of the tragedy of the commons, where individuals acting in their own self-interest ultimately deplete a shared resource, leading to the collapse of the entire system.

Archaeological evidence reveals that the Minoans engaged in extensive deforestation during the later stages of their civilization. As a seafaring people, they required vast quantities of wood for shipbuilding and other economic activities. The palace of Knossos, one of the largest Minoan settlements, boasted an estimated 100,000 trees in its construction alone. The demand for timber led to widespread clearing of forests, which had disastrous consequences for the island’s ecosystem. Each individual or group likely prioritized their own need for wood, failing to consider the cumulative impact of their actions on the shared resource of the island’s forests.

The loss of trees resulted in severe soil erosion, as the roots that once held the earth together were no longer present. This, in turn, led to increased flash flooding, as there was no natural barrier to slow the flow of water during heavy rains. The combination of erosion and flooding likely damaged agricultural lands, reducing crop yields and straining the food supply. This is a clear example of how the depletion of a shared resource can have far-reaching and unintended consequences for the entire community.

Despite the warning signs of environmental degradation, the Minoans continued their unsustainable practices. The short-term benefits of timber extraction and the maintenance of a thriving shipbuilding industry outweighed the long-term risks in the minds of Minoan leaders. This shortsightedness and prioritization of immediate gains over long-term sustainability is a hallmark of the tragedy of the commons.

See anything familiar to modern tech companies?

The Minoans’ failure to adapt to changing environmental conditions and their reliance on unsustainable practices ultimately contributed to their downfall. By 1450 B.C.E., many of the grand palaces lay in ruins, and the once-thriving civilization began to decline. The final blow came in the form of the massive Thera volcanic eruption around 1600 B.C.E., which caused tsunamis and ash fallout that further destabilized the weakened Minoan society. The tragedy of the commons had left the Minoans vulnerable to external shocks, as they had depleted the very resources that could have helped them withstand such challenges.

Collapse of Easter Island

Easter Island, one of the world’s most remote inhabited islands, was once home to a thriving civilization known for its remarkable stone statues called moai. However, by the time European explorers arrived in the 18th century, the island’s population had dwindled, and the once-lush landscape was largely deforested. The collapse of Easter Island’s civilization is a prime example of the tragedy of the commons, where the unsustainable use of a shared resource led to its depletion and the downfall of the entire society.

The Rapanui people, who settled on Easter Island around 900 CE, developed a complex society that relied heavily on the island’s abundant natural resources. The dense palm forests provided wood for construction, fuel, and the transportation of the massive moai statues. As the population grew, reaching an estimated peak of 15,000 inhabitants, the demand for resources intensified. Each clan or family likely sought to maximize their own use of the island’s trees, without considering the overall impact on the shared resource.

Between 900 CE and 1722, when Dutch explorer Jacob Roggeveen first visited the island, the Rapanui had cut down nearly every tree on the island. The deforestation was likely driven by the need for agricultural land, firewood, and timber for the construction of boats and the transport of the moai. The loss of trees had devastating consequences for the island’s ecosystem, leading to soil erosion, decreased crop yields, and the extinction of native plant and animal species. This is a clear illustration of how the pursuit of individual interests can lead to the destruction of a shared resource and the collapse of an entire ecosystem.

The rapid deforestation also had significant cultural implications. The Rapanui relied on the palm trees to transport the moai to their designated locations across the island. As the trees disappeared, the statue-building culture collapsed, and the moai were left abandoned in quarries or along transportation routes. This cultural shift likely contributed to social unrest and conflict among the Rapanui, as the shared resource that had once united them was now depleted.

By the time Roggeveen arrived in 1722, the island’s population had declined significantly, and the once-thriving civilization was in a state of crisis. The Rapanui had become isolated, with no means to build boats for fishing or to escape the island. The lack of resources led to intense competition and, according to some theories, even cannibalism. The tragedy of the commons had left the Rapanui in a desperate situation, as they had exhausted the very resources that had once sustained their society.

In the modern era, the lessons of Easter Island resonate with the challenges we face in managing our global resources. The consequences of our actions, like those on Easter Island, may not be immediately apparent, but they can have far-reaching and irreversible impacts on our planet’s delicate balance.

The Decline of the Khmer Empire

The Khmer Empire was a mighty civilization that dominated Southeast Asia from the 9th to the 15th century. At its peak, the Khmer Empire was known for its impressive capital city, Angkor, which boasted a complex system of reservoirs, canals, and hydraulic engineering marvels that supported a vast population and enabled extensive rice cultivation.

However, the very infrastructure that had allowed the Khmer Empire to flourish would eventually contribute to its downfall. The empire relied heavily on an intricate network of water management systems, including the famous barays (artificial reservoirs) and canals, to support its agricultural productivity. These systems required constant maintenance and careful management to function effectively, a responsibility that fell on the shoulders of the ruling elite and the local communities.

Over time, the Khmer Empire’s rapid expansion and growing population put increasing pressure on its natural resources. Deforestation, driven by the need for agricultural land and construction materials, led to soil erosion and reduced the land’s capacity to retain water. This environmental degradation gradually undermined the empire’s ability to maintain its complex hydraulic systems, leading to reduced agricultural yields and growing social unrest.

As individual farmers and communities sought to maximize their own agricultural output, they inadvertently contributed to the overexploitation of shared resources, such as water and land.

To make matters worse, the Khmer Empire faced a series of prolonged droughts in the 14th and 15th centuries, which further strained its already weakened water management systems. The combination of environmental degradation, climate change, and the inability to maintain the hydraulic infrastructure led to widespread water shortages and crop failures, undermining the empire’s food security and social stability.

As the Khmer Empire’s agricultural productivity declined, so did its political and economic power. The once-thriving city of Angkor, a symbol of the empire’s wealth and sophistication, was gradually abandoned as the population sought more stable sources of food and water. By the mid-15th century, the Khmer Empire had fragmented into smaller kingdoms, and its once-impressive capital lay in ruins.

The Newfoundland Cod Fishery Crisis

The Grand Banks of Newfoundland were once among the world’s richest fishing grounds, with cod being the backbone of Newfoundland’s economy for centuries. The abundance of cod led to a “commons” mentality where everyone sought to maximize their catch. In the 1950s and 1960s, technological advancements like factory trawlers and sonar dramatically increased the efficiency of cod harvesting, leading to severe overfishing by companies such as Fishery Products International (FPI) and National Sea Products.

By the 1970s, the cod population was in steep decline. Despite warnings from scientists like Dr. Leslie Harris, who chaired the Northern Cod Science Program, the Canadian government, influenced by intense lobbying from the fishing industry and local communities, continued to allow high fishing quotas. Key political figures, such as John Crosbie, the federal Minister of Fisheries and Oceans, faced pressure from industry stakeholders, exacerbating the problem and pushing the cod population to the brink of collapse.

The cod fishing industry’s lobbying efforts were driven by short-term greed and a desire to maximize immediate profits. Major companies and influential industry groups argued that reducing quotas would devastate local economies and lead to job losses.

The issue with the tech sector is that, unlike fishing, which is easily understood by older generations, data mining is a complex concept that many politicians struggle to grasp. The average age of U.S. Congress members is around 58 years, and they often fail to ask the right questions or understand the implications of data mining practices by companies like Meta, TikTok, and Google. For example, during the 2018 Facebook-Cambridge Analytica scandal hearings, many lawmakers struggled to understand basic concepts of data privacy and digital advertising, highlighting a significant knowledge gap.

“How do I eat fish?”

“How do fishing boats work?”

“What is a cod?”

“Why is all fish so slippery?”

These questions appear as ridiculous as how questions about ads sound to more technologically savvy generations.

The collapse of the Newfoundland cod fishery was both gradual and sudden. Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, scientists and environmentalists issued warnings about the declining cod stocks, but these were largely ignored. The realization of the crisis and the subsequent moratorium in 1992 was abrupt, leading to the immediate loss of over 30,000 jobs and devastating communities that relied on the fishery for generations.

Similarly, the technology and data mining sectors might face a comparable issue. However, because data doesn’t die or run out like fish, its final resolution will be much different from the natural disasters we are used to. The overexploitation of data can lead to a degradation of trust and privacy, with long-term consequences that are harder to reverse. Unlike fish stocks, which can potentially recover over time with proper management, data remains in cyberspace indefinitely, posing ongoing risks.

Twenty years later, the Newfoundland cod fishery has not fully recovered, and the industry remains a shadow of its former self. The collapse has led to a diversification of the local economy, with a greater focus on other species like crab and shrimp, as well as non-fishing industries. However, the legacy of the collapse is still felt in the region, with many communities continuing to struggle with the economic and social impacts of the disaster.

No fish suffered in the writing of this article.

But a couple of empires collapsed.

And even more digital empires will eventually collapse.

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Enshittification, a term coined to describe the pattern of decreasing quality in online services and products, has been a powerful force in shaping innovation throughout history. While the word itself may not be precisely appropriate, the concept it represents—the tendency of successful companies to become complacent, resist change, and ultimately face destruction at the hands of more innovative competitors—has been a recurring theme in the story of progress. From the rise and fall of the ice harvesting industry to the disruption of traditional transportation by visionaries like Cornelius Vanderbilt, history is replete with examples of how the refusal to adapt can lead to the downfall of even the most powerful enterprises.

In today’s rapidly evolving technological landscape, the lessons of history are more relevant than ever. As online platforms and services become increasingly central to our lives, the risk of enshittification looms large. Companies that once revolutionized their industries now face criticism for their declining quality and lack of innovation. Meanwhile, new players, unencumbered by the baggage of legacy business models, are emerging to challenge the status quo, just as Vanderbilt did with the railroads and Tudor did with the ice trade.

Horses: Manure and Mobility Industry

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the problem of horse manure was a pervasive one, affecting major cities across Europe and North America. The most literal example of this issue was highlighted in an episode of the TV series ‘Silicon Valley,’ where the character Jared Dunn drew a parallel between the impact of PiedPiper on the Internet and the effect of the automotive industry on horses.

In London, by the late 1800s, there were 50,000 horses working daily, each producing 15-35 pounds of manure and around 2 pints of urine per day. This led to streets attracting flies and spreading diseases like typhoid fever. The situation was so dire that in 1894, The London Times predicted that within 50 years, the city would be covered in 9 feet of manure.

In 1890, there were 13,800 carriage manufacturer companies in the United States. However, just thirty years later, in the 1920s, only 90 remained. With the surging demand for automobiles, economic decline, and a stubborn denial of the changing times, companies accepted their fate and refused to seek alternatives.

Vanderbilt, on the other hand, demonstrated foresight. Initially investing heavily in horse-drawn ferries, he recognized the disruptive potential of railroads and automobiles when they emerged in the early 20th century. Vanderbilt boldly (and sometimes illegally) pushed forward, transitioning his investments into this new mode of transportation. He understood that laws and the status quo were inhibiting progress, so he built a railroad empire, paving his way to join the Illuminati (probably).

Of course, money eventually corrupted the Vanderbilt family, but the idea stands: companies that fail to adapt and keep innovating will likely face disruption themselves. Just like the horse-based businesses that focused on short-term profits by squeezing their “locked-in” customers, modern tech companies that allow their products to stagnate and degrade may find themselves vulnerable to new upstarts offering a better user experience.

The horse industry’s resistance to automobiles, through political lobbying and fear-mongering rather than innovation, mirrors the behavior of modern tech giants trying to lock in users and lock out competition. In the early 1900s, the “carriage lobby” in some states went to great lengths to hinder the adoption of automobiles, such as requiring car drivers to hire a person to walk in front of the vehicle waving red flags to prevent horses from being frightened. However, history has shown that this strategy was not sustainable, as horse-based businesses that failed to adapt were swiftly wiped out once the superior technology of automobiles became widely available.

In both cases, business models built around an increasingly obsolete technology can experience significant short-term growth by exploiting their captive customers. However, by allowing their products and services to deteriorate, they ultimately sow the seeds of their own disruption and collapse. Just as the giants of the horse industry fell, modern tech companies that succumb to “enshittification” may find themselves rendered irrelevant by new innovations they failed to embrace.

The businesses that will endure are those with the vision to relentlessly pursue innovation, even if it means creatively destroying their own profitable legacy businesses. Clinging to the past by abusing your current customers inevitably leads to those customers abandoning you entirely when something better comes along.

Most of the horses were probably slaughtered.

Ice Harvesting: Ice belongs to the Wealthy!

Before the advent of refrigeration, ice harvesting was a booming industry that played a crucial role in preserving food and cooling drinks. During the winter months, workers would cut large blocks of ice from frozen lakes and rivers, storing them in icehouses for use throughout the year. At its peak in the late 19th century, the United States alone harvested over 25 million tons of ice annually, employing tens of thousands of workers.

The ice harvesting industry was dominated by powerful companies and wealthy individuals who controlled the icehouses and distribution networks. Frederic Tudor, known as the “Ice King,” was one of the most prominent figures in the industry. Tudor built a vast empire by shipping ice from New England to the southern United States, and even as far as India and the Caribbean. His innovative insulation techniques, using sawdust and hay, allowed him to transport ice over long distances without significant melting. Tudor’s success inspired many others to enter the industry, leading to fierce competition and substantial profits for those who controlled the supply chains.

However, the introduction of the first practical electric refrigerator for home use in 1913 marked the beginning of the end for the ice harvesting industry. As electric refrigerators became more affordable and widespread in the 1920s, they offered a more convenient and reliable way to preserve food, making the labor-intensive and weather-dependent ice harvesting industry increasingly obsolete.

Despite the clear advantages of electric refrigeration, many in the ice harvesting industry were reluctant to accept the impending disruption. Companies and individuals who had profited immensely from ice harvesting were hesitant to invest in or adopt the new technology, believing that natural ice, with its long history and established infrastructure, would continue to be in demand. This resistance to change was exemplified by the Knickerbocker Ice Company, one of the largest ice harvesting firms in the United States. The company continued to invest heavily in ice harvesting operations and infrastructure, even as electric refrigeration gained popularity.

As electric refrigeration became more widespread, the demand for natural ice plummeted. By the 1930s, the once-thriving ice harvesting industry had all but collapsed. Many of the formerly profitable icehouses were abandoned, and the companies that had refused to adapt were either forced out of business or had to drastically downsize. The Knickerbocker Ice Company, for example, declared bankruptcy in 1932, a victim of its own resistance to change.

The decline of the ice harvesting industry serves as a powerful lesson in the importance of adaptation and innovation. Companies that prioritize staying ahead of technological advancements and are willing to disrupt their own profitable legacy businesses are more likely to thrive in the long term. Just as the ice harvesting industry was replaced by electric refrigeration, modern companies that fail to adapt may find themselves rendered obsolete by new technologies and business models.

In today’s rapidly evolving business landscape, the ability to anticipate and embrace change is more critical than ever.

Games Industry: Case of Vanilla Management

The games industry started in the same place where all good things start—someone’s basement or garage. I will never forget the experience of playing “Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines” for the first time. Despite its flaws, the game had so much love behind it that it motivated hundreds of people to come together and make it the truly unique narrative it is today.

As the industry grew and the potential for massive profits became apparent, a new “vanilla CEO” mentality emerged among corporate executives. They were put in those seats to pursue vanilla goals, without a complete understanding of why the game industry grew from when I was ridiculed in middle school for playing games into one of the most mainstream things imaginable.

This shift in focus led to the rise of “live service” games, designed to extract a steady stream of revenue from players through microtransactions, season passes, and other manipulative mechanics. These games often capitalize on a small percentage of players (whales) who account for a disproportionate amount of revenue. This phenomenon was satirized in a 2014 episode of South Park, “Freemium Isn’t Free,” which showcased how mobile games profit from just 1% of their user base. Ironically, this isn’t an example of enshittification, as these mobile games are deliberately designed to be bad enough that a small financial investment seems worthy to avoid dealing with annoying elements.

The consequences of this profit-driven approach are far-reaching. Developers, once celebrated for their creativity and dedication, now find themselves at the mercy of corporate whims. Mass layoffs have become commonplace, with even highly successful studios like Tango Gameworks falling victim to the ruthless mandate of cost-cutting. In 2023, despite the critical and commercial success of “Hi-Fi Rush,” Tango Gameworks was cut to make place for an inferior game.

Similarly, Arkane Austin, known for critically acclaimed games like “Prey” and “Dishonored,” faced closure after the commercial failure of “Redfall,” a game heavily influenced by the live service model. This decision underscores how the industry’s focus on live service games can lead to the downfall of even the most respected studios. Apparently, assembling a team to do another “Dishonored” was considered to be too much work.

Oh, well.

Publicly held companies face constant pressure to deliver quarterly profits to satisfy shareholders, often leading to cost-cutting measures and a reliance on exploitative monetization tactics. This mirrors the historical resistance of the horse-drawn carriage industry to automobiles in the early 20th century, where businesses clung to outdated models rather than embracing innovation.

In 2022, indie games accounted for 40% of all game releases on Steam, demonstrating the growing demand for unique and innovative experiences. However, it doesn’t necessarily translate to significant revenue for these developers. Even though large studios may release subpar games, their established brands and marketing budgets often give them an advantage over indie titles in terms of consumer trust and visibility.

The parallels between the tech giants and the gaming industry in their embrace of enshittification are striking. Companies that have achieved significant market dominance are now prioritizing short-term profits over long-term sustainability, often at the expense of product quality and user experience. Just as modern tech companies exploit their captive users by allowing their products and services to deteriorate, gaming giants are increasingly relying on exploitative monetization strategies and the integration of live service mechanics into games that don’t necessarily benefit from them.

The businesses that will endure are those with the vision to relentlessly pursue innovation, even if it means cannibalizing their own profitable legacy products and services.

Or, perhaps, the cycle is broken, and we will transcend destruction.

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