The Fun Crisis
In an age of endless content, many of us find ourselves kinda joyless. Content fatigue has finally started to arrive at the station, and it doesn’t matter where you are in the world, we all seem to have reached the boiling point. A teenager in Manila scrolls past dozens of recommended videos yet feels bored. A young graduate in São Paulo cycles through games on her phone only to close them in frustration. Even lifelong gamers confess that playing feels more like work these days. It seems like globally, the modern gaming and media landscape is grappling with a disconcerting question, Where did the genuine fun go? There has never been this much entertainment ever, yet the feeling of playfulness often feels dimmed. At the same time, millions of people head back into nostalgia, where they binge-watch their old shows, replay childhood games, and seek comfort in the familiar. Nostalgia offers warmth and safety, but it can also become a creative rut, trapping culture in loops of retro repetition.
Under these issues, there’s a tangle of forces. The commodification of media means that every moment of fun we have is packaged, monetised, and optimised for profit. (Count how many times I’ve said that before.) Algorithmic curation engines choose what we see and play, claiming to know our tastes, yet often they just corral us toward the same popular formulas, narrowing our discovery of new stuff. And the result of that is a kind of feedback loop: we get more of what we’re told we’ll like, and gradually we stop seeking what truly moves us. Add to this the soothing yet stagnating pull of nostalgia, and it’s no wonder so many people feel stuck in this cultural deja vu, hungry for real joy but unsure where to find it.
And yet, around the world, cracks are starting to appear in this joyless facade. From indie game collectives in South Africa to playful social media trends in South Korea, people are redefining play and reclaiming fun on their own damn terms. They’re revisiting what it means to play freely, and to experiment and even be vulnerable in our media consumption.
When Play Becomes Product
At the heart of this issue is the way that modern capitalism has seized our play. Games, videos, music, even fucking memes, stuff that used to be spontaneous sources of fun, have been transformed into commodities and data points. In the gaming industry, this is obviously pretty clear. Major video games today are often designed less as whimsical adventures and more as carefully engineered monetisation engines. We’ve got bright virtual casinos living inside our phone games, nudging us to buy power-ups. AAA titles ship with elaborate in-game stores and season passes. We’re enticed to grind daily quests not for the sheer thrill of it, but to keep us logged in and spending. The effect is that playing starts to feel like a chore, or a second job. The intrinsic fun of exploring a game’s world or mastering its challenges is overshadowed by extrinsic rewards and endless offers to upgrade for a price.
Algorithmic curation just adds to this joy drain. The same recommendation systems that serve up our next YouTube video or Netflix show have silently become gatekeepers of taste worldwide. On paper, these algorithms promise to find what we’ll enjoy. And to be honest, sometimes they do. But most of the time, they just trap us in a loop of the same damn shit that we always watch. By prioritising content that’s already trending or similar to what we’ve seen before, the algorithms end up feeding us a cultural diet of more of the same. If a quirky, experimental game or show doesn’t fit the established pattern that’s set up, it’s unlikely to surface on your feed. The result is an eerie homogenisation: like, open any popular streaming app or game platform and you’ll see much of it looks and sounds and is the same.
We’re presented with endless choices, yet somehow those choices feel so incredibly narrow. This damn paradox of choice, where having pretty much unlimited options leads to constant decision paralysis and dissatisfaction, and leaves us scrolling listlessly, unable to stumble upon the surprising, soul-stirring experiences that genuine fun often requires. Many people, facing an overload of algorithm-approved options, simply give up and go back to re-watching their comfort show yet again.
To add to that, the metrics driving these platforms prioritise engagement over enjoyment. An algorithm doesn’t give a damn if you actually feel happy or fulfilled watching a video or playing a game, it cares that you keep clicking and playing. Which leads to outrage, controversy, and addictiveness getting amplified, because they glue eyeballs to screens. Social media also feeds into this, by bombarding us with a shit-ton of inflammatory posts and sensational headlines that constantly spike our anxiety or anger, under the guise of “entertainment”. Video games employ skinner-box mechanics that hack our psychology, where we compulsively grind or gamble for loot, long after the fun has fled, because the design exploits our impulses. Basically what I’m trying to say is, getting profit has completely hijacked play, turning it into an instrument to maximise time on their platforms and microtransaction revenues. What suffers is the carefree, liberating essence of fun. Instead of playing to relax or connect with other people, we usually end up in solitary, stress-inducing cycles, like binge-watching until we’re numb or chasing in-game rewards until we’re exhausted. Play, which in theory is a liberating activity, becomes something that masters us. A privatised, isolated experience curated by corporate interests.
Yet humans by nature, are wired to play. We look for laughter, surprise, friendship, and creative expression. These things can’t be fully removed by a market algorithm. The very discontent so many of us feel, that sense of something missing even as we consume media for hours, is telling us that our basic playful spirit is being stifled. And that realisation is the first step toward change: recognising that fun under late capitalism is a constrained, distorted version of what it could be. Naming the things that are stealing our joy gives us a chance to start fighting for it, and to demand more from our media than compulsion and sameness.
Nostalgia: Comfort Blanket or Creative Cage?
When the present day feels lacking in please and joy, it’s only natural to yearn for the past. Nostalgia has become a strong force in our culture globally, acting as both a soothing balm and, paradoxically, a shackle on our imagination. During the uncertainty of the recent(and still ongoing) pandemic, for example, millions around the world found solace in the familiar. Old sitcoms and childhood cartoons got way more popular as people sought the warm glow of memory. Sales of vinyls even beat out modern CDs in some markets. Nostalgia is about safety, because it takes us back to versions of ourselves we don’t always get to be anymore. There’s comfort in that. And yeah, remembering good times does change your mood, even if just a little. In a world that feels so uncertain and just... constantly moving, the past is one of the few things we’ve already survived. so revisiting it is about anchoring yourself in something safe.
Media industries worldwide understand this power all too well. They have weaponized our nostalgia down to a science. Hollywood relentlessly brings out reboots and sequels, from yet another retelling of a classic Disney tale to the constant resurrection of 80s and 90s franchises. The video game industry remasters old hits and floods online stores with retro compilations. Music and fashion cycle through revival after revival of past trends. This isn’t merely because audiences spontaneously decided old is good, but because it’s a deliberate strategy. Familiarity is profitable. When people already have an emotional attachment to Star Wars or Pokémon or a beloved childhood song, half the marketing work is already done. Companies bank on that built-in affection, knowing we’re more likely to click play or buy a ticket if it triggers good memories. In the era of social media, that effect is amplified, you’ve got a nostalgic new release (lets say, a TV series steeped in references or a remaster of a 90’s game) not only draws an hyped audience, but fans will happily share memes, inside jokes, and reminiscence online, creating the sweet promotion at no extra cost.
But there’s a catch, because when nostalgia becomes the default mode of media, it can stifle creativity and deepen cultural stagnation. Our collective obsession with the past can turn into a creative cul-de-sac where studios and publishers move away from originality. Why take a risk on an new idea when you can reboot something with an existing fanbase? The result is an endless loop. Last year’s hit is this year’s rehash, yesterday’s hero is today’s cameo, and genuine surprises grow more and more scarce. This overreliance on nostalgia becomes a cultural crutch, and a way to avoid risk and ensure short-term returns, at the cost of long-term innovation. We see this in the safe, crowd-pleasing blockbuster sequels that recycle storylines rather than challenge audiences. We hear it in pop songs that lean heavily on hooks from decades past, aiming for a quick hit of recognition. Even in gaming, consider how many new releases feel oddly familiar, built on the IP of yesteryear. The more that industries double down on what worked before, the narrower the path for new voices and novel ideas.
And on a deeper level, a culture overdosing themselves on nostalgia can lose its forward vision, cause if every other big movie or game is a remake or part of some 30-year-old franchise, it just trains audiences to find comfort only in the known. We start to measure new works against rosy memories, often dismissing the new simply because it’s unfamiliar to us. Over time, it can diminish our ability to imagine different futures or embrace stories outside our comfort zone. There’s also this damn insidious bias, where the stories that get replayed most are usually those that were dominant in the past, they’re often Western, male-centred, and not very diverse. Constantly reresurrecting these familiar favourites can crowd out marginalised voices and untold stories, reinforcing a narrow canon. In other words, nostalgia can inadvertently keep us culturally stuck, replaying not just the hits of the past but also its blind spots and biases.
None of this is to say nostalgia is bad outright. You’ve probably seen me harp about nostalgia and how I love it so much throughout my blog, and in moderation, revisiting beloved media or traditions can be really enriching and creatively inspiring. The key is how we use nostalgia. There are instances where the creators honour our nostalgia while still forging new ground, for example, an innovative film that nods to classic genres but then switches it up on you, or a video game that uses a retro art style to deliver a message that couldn’t have been voiced decades ago. The difference is whether nostalgia is treated as a launchpad or a cage. If it’s a launchpad, it can spark fresh ideas by drawing on the best of the past and changing it to suit our modern day. If it’s a cage, it locks us into just echoing previous generations’ joys instead of discovering our own. And right now, it’s pretty clear that both media makers and consumers often lean too heavily on the comfort of the past as a refuge from an unfun present. Breaking out will require conscious effort, an appetite for novelty, a tolerance for the unfamiliar, and perhaps a reminder that every cultural icon was new and risky once. Without that, we risk snuffing out the very spark of play that nostalgia originally gave us in our youth.
Discovery and Disillusionment
Another area of our fun crisis is the way we discover (or fail to discover) new joys in an algorithm-driven media environment. Think about the current content buffet: every time you open a streaming service, you’re greeted by rows and rows of algorithmically curated suggestions, “Top Picks For You” based on your history. On gaming platforms, personalised recommendations push games similar to those you already play. When you first look at that, this personalisation seems helpful, it’s kinda like having a concierge for your entertainment. But you’ll start to notice that this concierge has a poor sense of adventure. The algorithm’s job is to keep you engaged, not to broaden your horizons. So it tends to serve up familiarity, like genres and creators you’ve consumed before, or things that a lot of other people similar to you have liked. This creates a feedback loop of taste. If you’ve watched a few Korean dramas, soon your entire homepage is Korean dramas, even if you’re open to other things. If you mostly play fantasy RPGs, the store buries indie puzzle games or new experimental titles that don’t fit that profile. Over time, you may start to assume there’s nothing exciting outside the bubble the algorithm built for you, a bubble that might be far more limited than you realise.
This algorithmic narrowing has a subtle psychological effect, it can make us passive consumers of fun rather than active seekers of it. In the past, you might have wandered a video rental aisle or browsed a bookstore, stumbling on something unexpected by complete chance. Or a friend might have dragged you to a movie you’d never pick yourself, which ended up surprisingly delightful. Those serendipitous experiences are harder to come by when our digital guides keep us on these well-traveled paths. We risk losing the art of discovery, that kind of thrill of finding a weird little game made in another country that you absolutely love, or getting hooked on a genre of music you didn’t know existed. Instead, many of us feel a kind of curated monotony, where everything recommended is fine, we guess, but nothing sparks joy. It’s as if the algorithms create a comfortable, bland playground where we may never get to scrape our knees, so leads to never climbing to new heights.
Moreover, being funnelled into certain content silos can lead to mistaking habit for passion. Do you truly enjoy the shows you binge, or have they just been spoon-fed to you so much that you’ve stopped questioning it? It’s a scary thought. Some people have started noticing that their actual enjoyment doesn’t line up with what they spend time on. For instance, you might spend an hour scrolling social media, not because it’s making you happy, but because it’s engineered to be hard to put down. Likewise, you might keep playing a mediocre game because it cleverly doles out rewards that trigger your brain’s dopamine circuits, but if you pause, you realise you’re not genuinely having fun, you’re just hooked. The line between what we truly enjoy versus what we’ve been conditioned to consume has blurred. In a world of infinite choices, we oddly often end up feeling we have no choice but to keep consuming what’s served to us.
The global reach of these algorithms means this isn’t just a Western problem. A teenager in Lagos, a grandmother in Tokyo, a student in Buenos Aires, all encounter the same style of feed, the same logic that boosts addictive engagement. Thus, the struggle to find genuine fun amid the algorithm’s choices is universal. It transcends borders and cultures, creating a kind of shared disillusionment, “Why am I not enjoying this as much as I feel I should?” The good news is that many are starting to wake up to this dynamic. Young people especially are growing savvy about how these platforms manipulate their attention. There’s a push for digital well-being and algorithmic transparency, movements demanding that their recommender systems show more diverse content or allow users to tune their own discovery settings. Some are taking matters into their own hands by seeking out human curators again, like subscribing to newsletters, following critics or content creators they trust, or joining communities where people recommend media to each other for the sheer love of it. In doing so, they are subtly reclaiming the power of discovery from the machines, reintroducing a bit of spontaneity and human taste back into the mix. This rebellion against the algorithm is still small, but it reflects a deep craving, which is to be surprised, moved, and to find authentic enjoyment rather than an endless fix of “engaging” content.
The Pressure to Perform vs. the Freedom to Play
One other rarely discussed barrier to genuine fun is the pressure to perform. Modern media platforms have turned so much of our leisure into this kind of public performance. We can’t just play a game, we feel expected to stream it or at least achieve something worth sharing in a screenshot. We can’t just watch a show for ourselves, we have to join in online discussions to have the wittiest take. Social media has made spectators and mini-celebrities of us all, so even our fun becomes content. This can create a constant low-level anxiety, the sense that if you’re playing a game, you have to be good at it (otherwise, what a shameful display on your profile), or that your hobby should be productive or aesthetic. How many people pick up hobbies they think they’ll get likes for, rather than ones that will actually make them happy? This performative aspect of media consumption turns play into yet another arena for validation, competition, or personal branding. The result is we usually approach fun in a calculated way, worrying about outcomes (like wins, high scores, external approval) instead of losing ourselves in the moment.
True play, by contrast, lives on a sense of freedom and low stakes. Think of children when they’re playing, they’re just playing, making up rules as they go, laughing, and moving on without a care. As adults, we rarely, if ever, grant ourselves that same freedom. We carry our worries and egos into our leisure. Many of us have forgotten how to be bad at something and laugh about it, how to be silly without being self-conscious, and how to play without a purpose. It’s telling that a lot of competitive online games today are intensely toxic environments, these players hurl every single type of abuse at each other over small mistakes because the stakes feel so high. It’s the complete opposite of a playful atmosphere. In a world where even fun has been turned into a competitive hustle, vulnerability, and the ability to let down your guard and just fucking be is rare.
But vulnerability is exactly what’s needed to truly have fun. To enjoy a goofy party game, you have to be willing to look a little silly. To try a new genre of movie, you must admit you don’t know what you’ll feel, and that’s okay. To participate in a community gathering or a Dungeons & Dragons night, you have to drop the cool facade and engage earnestly.
Regaining this freedom to play is like emotional liberation. It means rejecting the voice that asks “What am I gaining from this? Am I impressing anyone?” and replacing it with “I’m doing this just because it makes me feel so damn good.” This shift is desperately needed in a society that conditions us to monetise our every waking minute and constantly compare ourselves with others. A small but growing number of people are embracing this, and we see it when adults unabashedly play with toys or join improv theater classes or pick up paintbrushes to dabble with art, they’re not trying to become experts, they’re relishing the process. In online spheres, some have cultivated spaces free of judgment, like private Discord servers, forums or friend groups where gamers of all skill levels muck about in games or share bizarre indie game finds, laughing off failures and celebrating creativity. These are safe zones for play, where the only metric that matters is laughter or delight, not skill or clout. Every time someone chooses to play a game on easy mode without shame, or dances like nobody’s watching (and crucially, doesn’t post it anywhere for others’ approval), they are reclaiming fun as their own. It’s a meaningful form of resistance to the productivity-obsessed, performance-oriented culture we live in. And by relearning how to play freely, we start reconnecting with a part of ourselves that capitalism has pressured us to suppress, the part that finds joy in exploration for its own sake, that isn’t afraid to fail, and that doesn’t need an audience to feel alive.
Reclaiming Joy
Despite the forces that have commodified and dulled our media experiences, people around the world are actively reclaiming joy and breathing life back into play. In many ways, these acts of reclamation are a form of everyday resistance against the idea that fun must be bought, or filtered through a screen. They show a desire to take back ownership of what it means to be entertained and to connect with others. I’ve been keeping track of and looking for emerging movements and examples of playful rebellion, and here as just some of them:
The Indie Game Renaissance: All over the globe, independent game developers are creating experiences that value creativity and personal expression over mass-market appeal. In this industry filled with gaming behemoths, indie games are the wild gardens growing in the cracks of the concrete. Many of these games are labours of love, made by small teams or even solo creators, and they often explore different things. For example, developers in Southeast Asia and Africa have started adding their local art styles, folklore, and languages into games, presenting play experiences that not only feel fresh by are also culturally authentic. These games might not have the marketing budgets of the big players, but people are seeking them out for their originality and heart. Every single time a gamer downloads a quirky, beautiful indie game instead of some cookie-cutter blockbuster, they’re casting a vote for the kind of fun that comes from human imagination rather than corporate strategy.
Alternative Festivals and Communal Play: I’ve noticed that the rise of alternative gaming festivals and community play events are also another sign of reclaiming joy. Take events like Gamescom latam in Latin America, and Bitsummit in Asia, game creators and players come together to celebrate weirdness and wonder. These festivals often feature games that double as art installations, and hybrid forms of play that spill into music and storytelling. They create a carnival-like atmosphere reminiscent of play’s communal roots, where people physically gather (or sometimes gather online) to experiment and bond together. It’s a big contrast to playing alone in front of a screen under the watch of an algorithm. Likewise, even outside of these festivals, communities are also reclaiming public spaces for play: urban games where people turn city streets into playgrounds, or local gaming tournaments run by volunteers for sheer enjoyment. These grassroots events prioritise collective joy and remind us that fun can bring people together in solidarity.
Reviving Analog and Traditional Play: Interestingly, the pushback against hyper-digital life has led to a revival of analog play and traditional games. There’s board game cafes from Kampala all the way to Kolkata all filled with young people who want to hang out and take a break from their screens. Classic TTRPGs like Dungeons & Dragons have gotten so popular across continents in the past decade, creating intimate gatherings where friends weave stories together and laugh late into the night. These IRL experiences offer something digital ones often can’t, a sense of human presence and vulnerability. When you’re sitting around a table acting out a character or making up a story together, you’re engaging in a form of play that is cooperative, unpredictable, and frankly, just freaking human. Many worldwide communities are also rediscovering their own traditional games and pastimes, and in some cases, combining them with modern media. In India, for example, the simple board game Ludo (a childhood staple) found new life as a mobile app “Ludo King,” bringing families and friends across distances together during the lockdowns in a playful reminder of old afternoons spent on the floor. In Kenya and Tanzania, developers have adapted indigenous folk tales into interactive stories and mobile games, so that technology becomes a means of preserving and sharing joyful heritage rather than erasing it. By embracing these forms of play, people start to affirm that fun doesn’t have to come from glossy corporate products, it can be homemade, passed down, or improvised with whatever the hell you have.
Online Communities of Joy: While quite a lot of the internet is governed by algorithms, there are corners of online space carved out specifically for community-driven fun. Think of fan communities that rally around creating rather than just consuming, like fan fiction writers, remix artists, and meme creators. These wonderful people take mass media and play with it, subverting narratives or adding their own spin to it, essentially saying,“We’ll make our own fun out of these building blocks.” There are also positive online movements like as the Wholesome Games community, which came up specifically during the lockdowns to highlight and support video games that centre on kindness, creativity, and calm enjoyment. What started as a small hashtag grew into a community push that even influenced the industry itself, proving that there is a hunger for gentler, more heartfelt gaming experiences beyond the typical violent or hyper-competitive stuff. On another note, in some countries, open-source and hacker communities treat tech as a playground rather than a product. They’ll create free mods for games, and build apps for the hell of it (like a collaborative pixel art canvas where thousands paint together), or maybe set up local mesh networks to share media without the usual corporate platforms. Each of these actions slowly chips away at the notion that we have to experience joy in the predigested form these big companies hand us. Instead, people are co-creating joy, often with strangers-turned-friends on the internet, united by a fun project or common interest.
All of these examples tell us a fundamental truth, joy can be reclaimed. It takes intention and sometimes a bit of courage, to step off the treadmill of mainstream content, and to try something new, in ways that might seem silly to a cynical eye. But every small act, from a group of students in Cairo starting a game design club, to elders in Mexico teaching kids traditional street games, to a YouTuber in Berlin curating weekly playlists of oddball short films for anyone curious, they all contribute to an underground current of playfulness that resists commodification. This current says fun is ours, collectively, and it doesn’t have to be made for us, we can make it ourselves. In a sense, reclaiming joy is about democratising play again, by taking it back from the companies and returning it to the people.
Beyond the Western Playbook
It’s essential to understand that the struggle for and celebration of genuine fun is a global phenomenon, not just a western one. In fact, some of the best visions for playful media engagement are coming from non-western contexts, where creators and communities often modify old models and come up with fresh approaches. This kind of innovation happening globally also offers hints of what a more joyful, inclusive media future could look like:
African Game Creators Telling New Stories: Across Africa, a new generation of game developers are redefining what video games can be. Without the baggage of decades-old industry giants, they often approach game design with a freer mindset. Studios in Nigeria, Kenya, and Ghana, for instance, are building games around African folklore, local history, and everyday life in their communities, stories and settings rarely seen in mainstream games. These projects aren’t just about representation (though that’s obviously important), they also prioritise a different kind of gameplay too, some that emphasise exploration, narrative, or community impact over mindless grinding. Because the profit expectations are smaller and the audiences sometimes local, there’s room to experiment and take actual risks. Some African developers are also focusing on mobile platforms and communal play experiences, recognising that in many communities a game is something you play side by side with friends on a shared device or in an internet cafe. This kind of emphasis on social play and cultural relevance adds a sense of real joy and pride into gaming, because players see themselves in the games and often play together, blurring the line between game and social gathering.
East Asian Models of Community Fun: East Asia also provides fascinating contrasts in how fun is experienced and innovated. In South Korea for example, PC bang (LAN cafes) culture is still huge, these are physical spaces where people of all ages gather to play games, not at home in isolation. The communal atmosphere often turns competitive games into lively social events. Meanwhile, Japan’s enduring arcade scene also shows how public play spaces can survive into the digital era by constantly reinventing what playing looks like (think rhythm games with physical dancing, or simple capsule toy machines for all ages). These environments emphasise having fun as a public, shared experience, and not just a private pastime. They represent a conscious choice to prioritise relaxation and enjoyment. And it feels like a redefinition of fun away from adrenaline and towards serenity. The fact that millions of players seek these experiences is a statement in itself: fun can mean peace, friendship, and satisfaction, not just excitement or spectacle.
Latin American and South Asian Media Co-creation: In regions like Latin America and South Asia, there’s a rich tradition of communities creating and sharing media outside the usual channels, which has only been strengthened by new technology. In Cuba, where internet access has been limited, people famously developed El Paquete Semanal, a grassroots, weekly curated package of movies, shows, and music passed around on USB drives. It’s essentially a community-run Netflix alternative born out of a necessity, but it also carries an unintended side effect, the content is curated by actual people based on what the community finds enjoyable or important, rather than by the algorithms. And this kind of human curation and sharing fosters discussions and collective enjoyment that can feel very different from binging something alone that some app recommended you. In India, a parallel can be drawn to the big explosion of local content on YouTube and streaming platforms, where there’s often low-budget, funny, and relatable videos that communities rally around. Small comedians, home chefs, and storytellers gather a crowd of viewers online by tapping into the communal sense of humour and culture that big media companies have long ignored. Their popularity points to another important insight that I’ve been alluding to, which is that people find tremendous fun in seeing their own lives and languages reflected in media, and they will support homegrown creators who provide that, even in the face of big media. In both these contexts, the usual rules of the algorithm or the market is bent by local ingenuity, which results in media experiences that are often more joyous because they’re grounded in what the community actually preferences and participates in.
Cross-Cultural Collaboration and Art: Technology has also enabled collaborations across borders in the most unexpected ways. Think about how popular challenges on social media platforms jump from country to country, you’ll see a catchy song from Nigeria becoming the background to a dance by Indonesian teens, which is then riffed on by Americans, and so on. This isn’t just corporate globalisation, it’s cultural exchange through play. Each participant, by joining in some goofy meme format, is part of a worldwide inside joke. There’s a fun sense of connection in those moments, a knowledge that fun can actually transcend language when people are open to sharing with each other. On a more artistic level, international game jams (like the annual Global Game Jam) see tens of thousands of people from all sorts of countries come together for a weekend to create games around a specific theme. In these jams, you might have a programmer in Brazil teaming up with a designer in Egypt and a musician in Canada to prototype a game purely for the fun of it. No money changes hands, and no one is trying to make the next billion-dollar app. It’s play for play’s sake among creators, and the results of them are usually weird and inventive. Such collaborations underscore that a playful approach to media can be a unifying force, a common language of joy that connects us beyond politics or profit.
These all reinforce a hopeful message, there is no one way to have fun, and certainly no single corporation or culture owns the blueprint for playing. When Western entertainment models grow stale or oppressive, looking to how others are innovating can also provide inspiration. Often, communities that have had to be resourceful, either due to economic constraints or cultural marginalisation, end up pioneering the most authentic types of fun. They remind the rest of the world that having, and making your own fun can be simpler and better than the latest gadget or trend. A pickup soccer game on a dirt lot, some shared VR art experiment in an Asian metropolis, or a storytellers’ circle under the stars, all these can coexist as valid and vital forms of media engagement. While we consider the future, these sparks of fire from across the globe show us a beautiful kaleidoscope of playful possibilities far richer than the status quo.
Visions for the Future
Now imagine a future media landscape where joy, creativity, and connection are the guiding lights, rather than profit and endless growth. In many ways, this vision is radical, because it challenges the status quo at a fundamental level. It asks us, what if our games, shows, and online platforms were designed not to keep us hooked or to sell us things, but to genuinely enrich our lives and communities? I know how idealistic that might sound, but seeds of this future are already being planted. But to nurture them, we need to sketch out a way of thinking about media and play that can guide us moving forward:
Play as a Human Right, Not a Product: First of all, we need to know that the ability to play and enjoy leisure is a fundamental part of a fulfilling life, not some luxury or a waste of time. This is a deeply anti-capitalist idea, because it just implies that people deserve time and space to have fun without needing to justify it through productivity or a form of payment. It means fighting for societal changes, like shorter work weeks, fair wages, and robust public spaces that give people the freedom to engage with media or games purely for enjoyment. In a future vision, governments and communities could invest more into our cultural programs, parks, makerspaces, and game centers the way they invest in infrastructure, recognising that our collective joy as a society is just as important as roads and hospitals for a healthy society. When you treat play as a right, you create conditions for everyone (not just the rich or the young), to explore their interests, be creative, and just fucking chill.
Decolonising Taste and Diversifying Stories: A free media future will also require breaking the hegemony of a few algorithms and studios dictating our global culture. This means actively supporting diverse voices in media creation, and not as a token gesture, but as the new normal. Because if more countries and communities can tell their own stories, and audiences embrace a mindset of curiosity, the monotony of homogenised content will give way to a much brighter and colourful space for all. Think of it as a shift from this giant entertainment industry to a democratised cultural ecosystem, where a Thai indie game, a Nigerian sci-fi film, an indigenous Canadian web series, and a Finnish experimental podcast all have a chance to flourish and find their audience. Cause the more variety we have, the less any single trend (like, nostalgia reboots or battle-royale games) can dominate and stiffen our sense of fun. Instead, media will feel like an ever-expanding adventure, where there’s always something new to discover. For the everyday person, the onus is on us being open to the unfamiliar, and to treat trying a subtitle movie or an unusual game genre not as some gruelling homework, but as playful exploration. In the future we want, curiosity is a virtue, and algorithms (if we still use them) are tuned to encourage exploration and cross-pollination of different types of cultures, rather than keeping everyone in their lanes.
Human Curated Platforms and Algorithms: Speaking of algorithms, we can imagine technologies redesigned with human well-being at the centre. This might involve something like a “Public Service Algorithm”, a recommendation system run by a nonprofit or public institution, aimed not at ad revenue but at maximising users happiness and growth. Such an algorithm might measure success in terms of how happy and satisfied its users are, rather than how many hours you spend scrolling. It would deliberately offer exploration, like maybe one slot in every ten recommendations is a wild card outside your usual tastes, just to keep things interesting. Also, future platforms could give users more control of what they see exactly (Think the bluesky feed, but even more options), like sliders to adjust whether you want comforting content or challenging content today, local community recommendations integrated alongside global ones, and transparent and clear data so you know exactly why something is being shown to you. In a sense, this is bringing back the role of the curator, combining the scale of actual humans (Not fucking AI, I have to be clear), with the sensibilities of librarians, DJs, teachers, and tastemakers who introduce people to new works out of passion, not profit. The tech doesn’t have to disappear, it just needs to serve our quest for joy, not the other way around.
Embracing Vulnerability: A playful future would also prize participation over perfection. This could mean more media that invite audiences to shape them, like interactive narratives where the community votes on plot directions, or games that evolve based on player creativity (similar to how Terraria’s fucking incredible community engagement shaped the game over time). It also means how we have to make it normal for adults to play socially, to be silly, and fail without shame. Perhaps schools and workplaces of the future incorporate play-based sessions not as gimmicks but as fundamental practices, where team-building through collaborative games, and stress relief through shared humour, creates continuous learning through creative play. On an individual level, each of us can work to let go of that performative mask a lot of us wear when consuming media, like watching movies without live-tweeting hot takes, playing games on your own terms rather than how Twitch popularity dictates, and having virtual movie parties in your group server just because. If this kind of ethos spreads, the collective effect is profound. You’d slowly notice a society that values joy and emotional expression is healing some of the alienation and anxiety that has become so rampant in their everyday online and offline lives. It becomes easier to reach out to others and build community, when people aren’t so guarded. Play can be the common ground where people meet as equals, no matter their background, maybe a simple board game or shared story can connect folks across political or cultural divides on a human level.
Playful Resistance and Activism: Lastly, looking to the future, we can think of play as a form of activism and change. This is already visible when protesters use creative pranks and theatrical tactics to make serious points (turning demonstrations into carnavalesque events), or when online communities derail hateful agendas with humour (trolls getting out-trolled by collective shaming through memes and jokes, for example). A media landscape that encourages satirical art, open-source game tools, and broad participation can empower more people to speak truth to power playfully. Why does this matter? Because sadly and honestly, humour and play can often slip through defences where earnest debate can’t. A meme can ignite awareness across the globe faster than a scholarly article. A game that simulates an injustice can make players feel its unfairness in a way that news reports might not. By embracing these forms of media, the movements of the future could keep people engaged, and avoid burnout, sustaining our collective joy even in struggle. After all, a lesson that I’ve learnt far too many times, is that drudgery and despair are the enemies of progress, and when people have hope and camaraderie (both of which grow in play), we can imagine and fight for a better world more effectively.
Bringing about this vision won’t be easy. It stands in complete opposition to powerful interests that benefit from the status quo. But the very fact that we can articulate it, that we can dream of a world built for togetherness, media that leaves us feeling uplifted and not empty, and a culture that celebrates playfulness at all ages, is a hopeful sign. It means we haven’t forgotten what fun feels like, even if we only catch glimpses of it. We carry inside us the childhood memory of kicking a ball around until dusk with our friends, or huddling around a comic book in the school library, or singing at the top of our lungs to a pop song, and how free we felt in those moments. Those memories are compass needles pointing toward what we need more of.
In the future, my hope is that we can start to transform those personal joys into a collective reality, and to insist that our advanced tech and creativity be used to set us free, not cage us in. It’s a challenge to corporations, yes, but also to each of us, to support the art and media that bring us actual joy, broaden our horizons rather than retreating into safe nostalgia all the time, and to make space in our lives for unproductive, no-strings-attached way. If we can do that, even in the smallest of ways, we begin to wipe away the gray walls of commodification and let in bright flashes of colour and laughter. Bit by bit, what is a stagnating landscape can become a playground again. And perhaps one day we’ll look around and find that the genuine fun we longed for was here all along, growing in those cracks, waiting for us to notice and join in.
A New Game to Play
What I’ve been talking about this entire time, of an entertainment world that often feels hollow and manipulative, is ultimately a hopeful one. Because identifying the forces that dull our joy is the first step in breaking their spell. Around the globe, in countless ways, people are already starting to, by laughing together, trying new things, resurrecting old joys, and building communities around shared passions. We are proving that having fun, and our leisure doesn’t have to be something pre-packaged and sold back to us, it can be spontaneous, subversive, and ours. In a way, we are in the middle of a grand playtest, where we’re being tested on whether we, the players of life, can rewrite the rules that have been brought upon on us. The status quo might be a heavy boss to beat, but there’s a secret power on our side, the irrepressible human need for play.
Every time you choose to play a game just to spend time with friends, you score one for joy. Every time a group in a far-flung place invents a new form of entertainment that catches the world’s imagination, a bit of that cultural monotony cracks. Every imaginative protest, indie art piece, every child who is encouraged to remain playful as they grow up... all these are moves in a game to reclaim our collective fun. And it’s a game we can definitely win, because fun is fundamental to who we are. No system, however dominant, can ultimately kill the human spark that delights in play. The more of us become aware and intentional of that, the more that spark spreads into a fire.
So I hope that future comes one day. A future where we cheer each other on not just in esports arenas, but in life, as we all try to improve on our happiness. A future where play is not an escape from reality, but a pillar of it, available to everyone. If we can imagine that future, we can start living it now, day by day. In the stories we support, the way we spend our evenings, in how we raise the next generation to value joy and empathy over pure consumption. That is something worth striving for, and unlike the shallow thrills of the status quo, it’s one that will truly mean something when the screen fades to black.