You’d never know it from my current clairvoyance, but there was a time, not that long ago, when dating apps were pretty exciting and fun. In 2012, I was 21 and living in a small town. Tinder was a breath of fresh air in that stuffy world, offering a gateway into our socially adjacent world.
Over time, the technology’s pitfalls and risks became clear, but initially there was optimism that dating apps would not only work as advertised, but also make our lives better.
Twelve years later, that spark of potential seems all but gone. Dating app users are deleting their profiles en masse, companies are going bust, and industry leaders Bumble and Match Group have lost more than $40 billion in combined market capitalization since 2021.
The most commonly cited reason for the decline of dating apps is that commercial imperatives have taken precedence over functionality, from high membership fees to strategies that isolate the most desirable members.
As people become more aware of the tactics used to keep them swiping, they’re losing faith in the apps’ potential to lead to positive relationships. Some of the theories I’ve heard are vaguely conspiracy-like, suggesting that Hinge and Bumble are maliciously trying to alienate the love of your life until you sign up for premium.
It’s true that dating apps exist to make money, and we know very little about their algorithms, but I think it’s simplistic to blame the technology for poor or negative experiences when we, the users, also play a part.
Over a decade later, dating apps are no longer just platforms for meeting people: they are a world we have learned to live in, internalizing their mission and standards, even when they go against the app’s purpose of finding love.
Admittedly, when I take an honest look at my own behavior, I’ve contributed to the cutthroat, competitive culture I often criticize. I’ve ignored men, and they’ve ignored me. I’ve become so used to chats dying out so quickly that I neglect to message or respond to new matches.
Anecdotally, it’s now common for people to use apps with no intention of actually meeting their matches, simply to satisfy a desire for approval, or to equate the swiping process with real-life dating.
This shows how technology has come to dictate how we approach dating, and even how we behave while on a date.
But counterintuitively, I see it as a reason for optimism: if the current fatalism about dating is caused by apps, maybe we can innovate to do things differently.
We often talk about technology as something that gets in the way of “real” relationships, but it also has the power to create them. After all, one in ten adult couples in the United States met their partner online. I’ve personally turned social media connections into real friends. Others spend hours playing role-playing games with strangers or join online groups and forums.
We have methods of digital expression that are far more natural, nuanced and authentic than the prompts and photo selections that dating apps center around, and some people are already improving their love luck online by creating and sharing their own “dating docs,” searching for romantic connections on platforms like Duolingo and LinkedIn, or even creating their own dating apps.
But the lack of innovation from the companies themselves so far has been astonishing. If I were head of user experience at Bumble or Hinge, the first thing I would do would be to move away from a focus on users’ “dating intent” and partner-hunting. It’s too much pressure, and too big a gap for an app to ethically try to fill.
Instead, we need to find new ways to use technology to connect – ways that allow us to be our true selves online and support us in getting to know each other without the pressure of having to find love. Currently, dating apps are all about “tell, don’t show,” which means it’s easy to pretend to be someone you’re not, but hard to know someone’s true character.
The next generation of dating apps need to help users relate to each other, rather than just judging each other by photos and prompts. Think of the old ways of dating, where people spent time getting to know each other or staring at each other from afar, and apps could do just that by prioritizing real (even if digital) interaction over the pursuit of love.
You can learn a lot about someone indirectly, for example by browsing their bookshelf or playing a game together. The next generation of dating apps recognize this: InPress, currently localized for Washington, DC residents, connects users based on their news feeds and the articles they want to read online, while Date Like Goblins brings together singles to play video games over voice chat.
The internet can still be used to throw parties, and I believe it’s possible to reinvent dating apps for the better. But it will take a bold, creative vision to move us away from swiping paralysis and bring back enthusiasm. After all, we’ve spent the last 12 years learning to box ourselves into little boxes, and in the process, “we’ve forgotten how to actually meet people,” writes Magdalene J. Taylor in The New York Times.
That’s why it’s doubtful that those who abandon dating apps to take chances in the “real world” will thrive there. The corruption they have caused is widespread. But new models might renew our interest and change our approach. Think of the temporary excitement generated by the social sharing app BeReal, or the online game Pokémon Go that brought people together physically. Are there apps that connect you with friends of friends? Or that match you based on your Spotify library?
It’s too late to go back to the old ways. For better or worse (as many would say), we’ve successfully “gamified” dating. We’ve changed, and dating has changed. The challenge now is to make the game fun.
