I Liked Everything I Eyed on Facebook for Two Days
I Liked Everything I Eyed on Facebook for Two Days. Here's What It Did to Me
There's this excellent Andy Warhol quote you've most likely seen before: "I think everybody should like everybody." You can buy posters and plates with pictures of Warhol, looking like the cover of a Belle & Sebastian album, with that phrase plastered across his face in Helvetica. But the total quote, taken from a one thousand nine hundred sixty three interview in Art News , is a excellent description of how we interact on social media today.
Warhol: Someone said that Brecht desired everybody to think alike. I want everybody to think alike. But Brecht dreamed to do it through Communism, in a way. Russia is doing it under government. It's happening here all by itself without being under a stringent government; so if it's working without attempting, why can't it work without being Communist? Everybody looks alike and acts alike, and we're getting 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?
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 beloved are the fresh 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 latest Fresh York Times story on a krill oil ad campaign lays nude how much the like matters to advertisers . Liking is an economic act.
I like everything. Or at least I did, for forty eight hours. Literally everything Facebook sent my way, I liked—even if I hated it. I determined to embark on a campaign of conscious liking, to see how it would affect what Facebook displayed me. I know this sounds like a stunt (and it was) but it was also genuinely just an open-ended experiment. I wasn't sure how long I'd keep it up (48 hours was all I could stand) or what I'd learn (possibly nothing.)
See, Facebook uses algorithms to determine what shows up in your feed. It isn't just a parade of sequential updates from your friends and the things you've voiced an interest in. In two thousand fourteen the News Feed is a highly-curated presentation, delivered to you by a complicated formula based on the deeds you take on the site, and across the web. I dreamed to see how my Facebook practice would switch if I permanently rewarded the robots making these decisions for me, if I continually said, "good job, robot, I like this." I also determined I'd only do this on Facebook itself—trying to hit every Like button I came across on the open web would just be too daunting. But even when I kept the experiment to the site itself, the results were dramatic.
>There is a very specific form of Facebook messaging, designed to get you to interact. And if you take the bait, you’ll be shown it ad nauseam.
The very first thing I liked was Living Social—my friend Jay had liked it before me and it was sitting at the top of my feed. I liked two more updates from friends. So far, so good. But the fourth thing I encountered was something I didn't truly like. I mean, 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 disliked. A bad joke—or at least a dumb one. Oh well. I liked it anyway.
One thing I had to determine right away was what to do about the related items that show up after you've liked something. Let's say you like a story about cows that you see on Modern Farmer . Facebook will instantaneously present you with four more options to like things below that cow story, "relateds" in Facebook parlance. Very likely more stories about cows or agriculture.
Relateds quickly became a problem, because as soon as you like one, Facebook substitutes it with another. So as soon as I liked the four relateds below a story, it instantaneously gave me four more. And then four more. And then four more. And then four more. I quickly realized I'd be stuck in a related loop for eternity if I kept this up. So I lodged on a fresh rule: I would like the very first four relateds Facebook shows me, but no more.
Sometimes, liking is counterintuitive. My friend Hillary posted a picture of her toddler Pearl, with injuries on her face. It was titled "Pearl vs. the concrete." I didn't like it at all! It was sad. Normally, it would be the kind of News Feed item that would compel me to leave a comment, instead of hitting the little thumbs up button. Oh well. Like. The only time I declined to like something was when a friend posted about the death of a relative. I just had a death in my family last week. It was a bridge I wasn't going to cross.
But there was still slew 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 Fresh York Times , I liked Coupon Clipinista. I liked something from a friend I haven't spoken to in twenty 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 fresh character in a remarkably brief amount of time. After checking in and liking a bunch of stuff over 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. Almost my entire feed was given over to Upworthy and the Huffington Post. As I went to bed that very first night and scrolled through my News Feed, the updates I eyed were (in order): Huffington Post, Upworthy, Huffington Post, Upworthy, a Levi's ad, Space.com, Huffington Post, Upworthy, The Edge, Huffington Post, Space.com, Upworthy, Space.com.
Also, as I went to bed, I recall thinking "Ah, crap. I have to like something about Gaza," as I hit 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 suggested 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 particular syntax. Usually it went something like this:
A sentence recounting some controversial news. Good!
A sentence explaining why this is good.
A call to act, often ending with a question?
Once I see this pattern, I begin noticing it everywhere. SF Gate, the San Francisco Chronicle 's web presence, uses a similar tactic. It is a very specific form 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 time. By the end of day one, I noticed that on mobile, my feed was almost entirely devoid of human content. I was only introduced with the chance to like stories from various websites, and various other ads. Yet on the desktop—while it's still mostly branded content—I proceed to see things from my friends. On that little bitty screen, where real-estate is so valuable, Facebook's robots determined that the way to keep my attention is by hiding the people and only displaying me the stuff that other machines have pumped out. Weird.
As day one spinned into day two, I began dreading going to Facebook. It had become a temple of provocation. Just as my News Feed had drifted further and further right, so too did it drift 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 almost afraid to like them for fear of ending up on some sort of see list.
>Stop what you’re doing and look at this baby that looks exactly like Jay-Z.
This is a problem much fatter than Facebook. It reminded me of what can go wrong in society, 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 see have become hyper-niche and cater to our specific interests. We go down rabbit slots of special interests until we're lost in the queen's garden, cursing everyone above ground.
But maybe worse than the fractious political tones my feed took on was how deeply stupid it became. I'm given the chance to like a Buzzfeed post of some stud 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 Fresh York magazine, I am "officially old" because Malia Obama went to Lollapalooza (like!) and CNN tells me "Hubby Studies His Man-ternal Instincts" alongside a photo of a shirtless man cupping his nips. A cloud that looks like a penis. Stop what you're doing and look at this baby that looks exactly like Jay-Z. My feed was displaying almost only the worst kind of tripe that all of us in the media are complicit in churning out yet should also be deeply ashamed of. Sensational garbage. I liked it all.
While I expected that what I spotted might switch, what I never expected was the influence my behavior would have on my friends' feeds. I kept thinking Facebook would rate-limit me, but instead it grew 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 very first night, a petite little circle with a dog's head popped up in the corner of my phone. A talk head, from Facebook's Messenger software! The dog turned out to be my old WIRED editor, John Bradley. "Have you been hacked," he dreamed to know. The next morning, my friend Helena sent me a message. "My fb feed is literally utter of articles you like, it's kind of funny," she says. "No friend stuff, just Honan likes." I replied with a thumbs up. This continued via the experiment. When I posted a status update to Facebook just telling "I like you," I heard from numerous people that my weirdo activity had been overrunning their feeds. "My newsfeed is seventy 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 wished 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 attempted counting how much stuff I'd liked by looking in my activity log, but it was too staggering. 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 turned Facebook into a place where there was nothing I liked. To be fair, I indeed didn't like it. I didn't like what I had done.
I Liked Everything I Spotted on Facebook for Two Days
I Liked Everything I Witnessed on Facebook for Two Days. Here's What It Did to Me
There's this fine Andy Warhol quote you've most likely seen before: "I think everybody should like everybody." You can buy posters and plates with pictures of Warhol, looking like the cover of a Belle & Sebastian album, with that phrase plastered across his face in Helvetica. But the total quote, taken from a one thousand nine hundred sixty three interview in Art News , is a superb description of how we interact on social media today.
Warhol: Someone said that Brecht desired everybody to think alike. I want everybody to think alike. But Brecht desired to do it through Communism, in a way. Russia is doing it under government. It's happening here all by itself without being under a stringent government; so if it's working without attempting, why can't it work without being Communist? Everybody looks alike and acts alike, and we're getting 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?
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 beloved are the fresh 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 latest Fresh York Times story on a krill oil ad campaign lays nude how much the like matters to advertisers . Liking is an economic act.
I like everything. Or at least I did, for forty eight hours. Literally everything Facebook sent my way, I liked—even if I hated it. I determined to embark on a campaign of conscious liking, to see how it would affect what Facebook showcased me. I know this sounds like a stunt (and it was) but it was also genuinely just an open-ended experiment. I wasn't sure how long I'd keep it up (48 hours was all I could stand) or what I'd learn (possibly nothing.)
See, Facebook uses algorithms to determine what shows up in your feed. It isn't just a parade of sequential updates from your friends and the things you've voiced an interest in. In two thousand fourteen the News Feed is a highly-curated presentation, delivered to you by a complicated formula based on the deeds you take on the site, and across the web. I dreamed to see how my Facebook practice would switch if I permanently rewarded the robots making these decisions for me, if I continually said, "good job, robot, I like this." I also determined I'd only do this on Facebook itself—trying to hit every Like button I came across on the open web would just be too daunting. But even when I kept the experiment to the site itself, the results were dramatic.
>There is a very specific form of Facebook messaging, designed to get you to interact. And if you take the bait, you’ll be shown it ad nauseam.
The very first thing I liked was Living Social—my friend Jay had liked it before me and it was sitting at the top of my feed. I liked two more updates from friends. So far, so good. But the fourth thing I encountered was something I didn't truly like. I mean, 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 disliked. A bad joke—or at least a dumb one. Oh well. I liked it anyway.
One thing I had to determine right away was what to do about the related items that emerge after you've liked something. Let's say you like a story about cows that you see on Modern Farmer . Facebook will instantly present you with four more options to like things below that cow story, "relateds" in Facebook parlance. Very likely more stories about cows or agriculture.
Relateds quickly became a problem, because as soon as you like one, Facebook substitutes it with another. So as soon as I liked the four relateds below a story, it instantly gave me four more. And then four more. And then four more. And then four more. I quickly realized I'd be stuck in a related loop for eternity if I kept this up. So I lodged on a fresh rule: I would like the very first four relateds Facebook shows me, but no more.
Sometimes, liking is counterintuitive. My friend Hillary posted a picture of her toddler Pearl, with welts on her face. It was titled "Pearl vs. the concrete." I didn't like it at all! It was sad. Normally, it would be the kind of News Feed item that would compel me to leave a comment, instead of hitting the little thumbs up button. Oh well. Like. The only time I declined to like something was when a friend posted about the death of a relative. I just had a death in my family last week. It was a bridge I wasn't going to cross.
But there was still slew 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 Fresh York Times , I liked Coupon Clipinista. I liked something from a friend I haven't spoken to in twenty 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 fresh character in a remarkably brief amount of time. After checking in and liking a bunch of stuff over 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. Almost my entire feed was given over to Upworthy and the Huffington Post. As I went to bed that very first night and scrolled through my News Feed, the updates I spotted were (in order): Huffington Post, Upworthy, Huffington Post, Upworthy, a Levi's ad, Space.com, Huffington Post, Upworthy, The Edge, Huffington Post, Space.com, Upworthy, Space.com.
Also, as I went to bed, I reminisce thinking "Ah, crap. I have to like something about Gaza," as I hit 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 suggested 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 particular syntax. Usually it went something like this:
A sentence recounting some controversial news. Good!
A sentence explaining why this is good.
A call to activity, often ending with a question?
Once I see this pattern, I embark noticing it everywhere. SF Gate, the San Francisco Chronicle 's web presence, uses a similar tactic. It is a very specific form 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 time. By the end of day one, I noticed that on mobile, my feed was almost fully devoid of human content. I was only introduced with the chance to like stories from various websites, and various other ads. Yet on the desktop—while it's still mostly branded content—I proceed to see things from my friends. On that little bitty screen, where real-estate is so valuable, Facebook's robots determined that the way to keep my attention is by hiding the people and only demonstrating me the stuff that other machines have pumped out. Weird.
As day one flipped into day two, I began dreading going to Facebook. It had become a temple of provocation. Just as my News Feed had drifted further and further right, so too did it drift 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 almost afraid to like them for fear of ending up on some sort of witness list.
>Stop what you’re doing and look at this baby that looks exactly like Jay-Z.
This is a problem much fatter than Facebook. It reminded me of what can go wrong in society, 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 witness have become hyper-niche and cater to our specific interests. We go down rabbit fuckholes of special interests until we're lost in the queen's garden, cursing everyone above ground.
But maybe worse than the fractious political tones my feed took on was how deeply stupid it became. I'm given the chance to like a Buzzfeed post of some dude 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 Fresh York magazine, I am "officially old" because Malia Obama went to Lollapalooza (like!) and CNN tells me "Hubby Studies His Man-ternal Instincts" alongside a photo of a shirtless man cupping his puffies. A cloud that looks like a penis. Stop what you're doing and look at this baby that looks exactly like Jay-Z. My feed was displaying almost only the worst kind of tripe that all of us in the media are complicit in churning out yet should also be deeply ashamed of. Sensational garbage. I liked it all.
While I expected that what I witnessed might switch, what I never expected was the influence my behavior would have on my friends' feeds. I kept thinking Facebook would rate-limit me, but instead it grew 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 very first night, a petite little circle with a dog's head popped up in the corner of my phone. A talk head, from Facebook's Messenger software! The dog turned out to be my old WIRED editor, John Bradley. "Have you been hacked," he desired to know. The next morning, my friend Helena sent me a message. "My fb feed is literally total of articles you like, it's kind of funny," she says. "No friend stuff, just Honan likes." I replied with a thumbs up. This continued across the experiment. When I posted a status update to Facebook just telling "I like you," I heard from numerous people that my weirdo activity had been overrunning their feeds. "My newsfeed is seventy 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 wished 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 attempted counting how much stuff I'd liked by looking in my activity log, but it was too tremendous. 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 turned Facebook into a place where there was nothing I liked. To be fair, I indeed didn't like it. I didn't like what I had done.