There are times when, deep into a scroll through my phone, I tilt my head and realize that I’m not even sure what app I’m on. A video takes up my entire screen. If I slide my finger down, another appears. The feeling is disorienting, so I search for small design cues at the margins of my screen. The thing I’m staring at could be TikTok, or it could be one of any number of other social apps that look exactly like it.

Although it was not the first app to offer an endless feed, and it was certainly not the first to use algorithms to better understand and target its users, TikTok put these ingredients together like nothing else before it. It amassed what every app wants: many users who spend hours and hours scrolling, scrolling, scrolling (ideally past ads and products that they’ll buy). Every other major social platform—Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, YouTube, X, even LinkedIn—has copied TikTok’s format in recent years. The app might get banned in the United States, but we’ll still be living in TikTok’s world.

I recently made a game out of counting how many swipes it takes for each of my apps to try to funnel me into a bottomless video feed. From the default screen on the YouTube app, I swiped only once, past a long (five-minute) video, before it showed me a split screen of four “Shorts,” the first of which tried baiting me with a few seconds of looping, silent footage. Tapping any would have led me down the app’s vertical-video pipeline. I’m confronted with an array of “Reels” almost immediately upon opening Facebook, and need to swipe only once or twice before hitting similar “Videos for you” on LinkedIn. Both of these apps also have dedicated video tabs; Snapchat and Instagram do too. X eschews the carousel, but clicking any video leads to the entry point of something common to all these platforms: the wormhole. The app expands into full-screen mode to serve me an infinite scroll of videos.

The new social media that TikTok ushered in isn’t really about your actual social circle anymore. Platforms such as Snapchat, Facebook, and Instagram were built on connections to people you’d met before; now using them feels more and more like scrolling through channels, or peeping into 1 million glass houses. In 2022, Kate Lindsay wrote for The Atlantic that this is the era of “performance” media, “in which we create online primarily to reach people we don’t know instead of the people we do.”

[Read: The age of social media is ending]

Not everyone has loved this transition. In the summer of 2022, hundreds of thousands of people signed a petition declaring that “We The People” wanted to return to the “dawn” of Instagram, when timelines were chronological and the algorithm favored photos. Kendall Jenner and Kim Kardashian each shared a plain graphic reading “MAKE INSTAGRAM INSTAGRAM AGAIN (stop trying to be tiktok i just want to see cute photos of my friends.)” The head of Instagram, Adam Mosseri, responded: “If you’re seeing a new, full-screen version of a feed or you’re hearing about it, know that this is a test,” he said. Instagram’s video feed clearly passed. Photos, which he called part of Instagram’s “heritage,” are still on the app, but they are being drowned out by vertical video. On a call with investors last year, Mark Zuckerberg shared that the videos account for half of the time people spend on Instagram.

Why this particular feature—new videos surfaced by the flick of a finger? “Every designer knows that retention for an app, how engaged users are, is directly correlated with how fast the next thing loads,” Aza Raskin, who purportedly invented infinite scrolling in 2006 and now speaks about the dangers of social media, told me. In other words, apps are harder to tear yourself away from when they quickly present you with more. The design exploits the human urge for a visual cue that a task is through—an empty plate, say, or the bottom of a page—and hooks us because it never delivers. “It hits below the belt,” Raskin said.

The unpredictable and immediate reward of a post you like encourages more hunting. Marrying short videos with rapid context-switching, research suggests, interferes with our ability to act on our prior intentions. We struggle to even remember them. TikTok is especially good at lulling users into a flow state where they are so engrossed that “little else seems to matter to them,” researchers at Baylor University, in Texas, have found. Genuine delight drives that feeling. People report having more fun on TikTok than on Instagram, and experiencing more serendipity than what they find on Shorts or Reels: The app, the researchers found, erodes our self-control in a way those competitors just don’t.

[Read: The government’s disturbing rationale for banning TikTok]

Some users get so hooked on TikTok in particular that they seem to welcome the possible ban: “​​I have an addiction to this app. There’s nothing that could stop me. They need to take it away,”  one recently posted. “I might actually get my life back,” another said. “I average 14 to 15 hours a day … It’s not just like screen time; it’s the constant doomscrolling.” Similarly: “yesss phone detox.” Last year, Fast Company ran a piece with the headline “I’m Addicted to TikTok. I'm Begging the Government to Ban It.” A recent poll found that 44 percent of American adults support a TikTok ban, but only 34 percent view the app as a national-security threat; maybe the rest just want to be saved from themselves.

TikTok’s secret sauce is its famously—even uncannily—smart algorithm, which none of the copycats have totally been able to replicate. Much of the app’s success might also come from the less professionalized, more unhinged culture that its users have cultivated: I’m just more likely to stumble upon someone doing an impression of how a prepubescent Justin Bieber would have performed the role of Glinda the Good Witch, or covering their head with Nair, than I am anywhere else. If the app goes, I’ll have to find another way to check up on a 20-something who has been learning to play the same song on the trumpet since Christmas. She’s bad, but she’s getting better.

TikTok’s ultimate legacy is convincing other major social-media apps that people aren’t interested in seeing just people they know. We also appreciate videos that, like little windows, let us peek briefly into the lives of strangers. FCC Commissioner Brendan Carr has said that this aspect of TikTok makes it “uniquely replaceable”—any app can show you a bunch of strangers. Still, those strangers need to actually like the app enough to use it.

Researchers have already pointed out that the motion we use to scroll past videos kind of resembles pulling the lever of a slot machine. That rhetoric can fuel loose language around social-media addiction, confusing unhealthy use with genuine, debilitating craving. But it does seem very possible that, if TikTok ends up banned, people who have developed the impulse to scroll will continue to pull the lever in search of a dopamine rush, or a video you’d actually send to a friend. Without TikTok, we might just hit the jackpot less.

Updated at 1:55 p.m. ET on January 16, 2025

Imagine that a foreign-born billionaire buys Facebook, asks its engineers to boost his own posts, and then introduces a payment system that rewards users for pandering to his whims and prejudices.

Also imagine that the billionaire happens across a news report on the death toll in Iraq following the allied invasion back in 2003, and links that carnage to the intelligence failures that were used to justify the war. Bristling with righteous outrage, our fictional billionaire then suggests that the state and the media have covered up this whole incendiary topic.

This was how Elon Musk sounded to many Britons after he belatedly discovered the organized child-sexual-abuse networks known as “grooming gangs.” Here was a real scandal: Networks of adult men, primarily British citizens of Pakistani descent, had trafficked and raped young girls in towns across England, over many years, aided by failures of local governments and the police. But the scandal wasn’t new, nor had reporters ignored it en masse. “You don’t hate the legacy media enough,” Musk insisted at one point during his multiday spree of posts on X, his social-media platform. Never mind that a legacy media outlet—Rupert Murdoch’s London Times—first broke the story of the child-sex-abuse ring in Rotherham, 14 years ago.

[Ali Breland: Elon Musk has appointed himself king of the world]

Musk’s horrified reaction to the scandal, which appears to have been prompted by a viral post on New Year’s Eve, is entirely justified. However, it comes quite late, and demonstrates his usual self-centeredness: His thinking seems to be that if he didn’t hear about the scandal during the 2010s, then surely no one else did, either. His ownership of X, and his alliance with Donald Trump, gives him the power to force any issue he likes into the political conversation. Lately he has used that power to intervene in European politics, berating British Prime Minister Keir Starmer, boosting the German far-right Alternative für Deutschland, and attacking the European Union for its efforts to regulate his businesses. Starmer’s opponents on the right, including the Conservative leader Kemi Badenoch, have been quick to echo Musk’s interest in the grooming gangs—even though Badenoch’s party was in power as the story originally unfolded.

The Times reporting kicked off dozens of prosecutions, multiple public inquiries, and even a primetime British Broadcasting Corporation drama. The story was well known enough that one of the police whistleblowers appeared on a celebrity reality-television show in 2018. The news even reached America: In 2014, the New York Times columnist Ross Douthat observed that “what happened in Rotherham was rooted both in left-wing multiculturalism and in much more old-fashioned prejudices about race and sex and class.” The ethnicity of the perpetrators mattered, he argued, but so did the status of the victims—working-class girls whom the police saw as “‘tarts’ who deserved roughly what they got.”

Musk’s newfound revulsion at the details of the abuse is entirely justified—read the sentencing reports if you have the stomach for it. “Girls were raped callously, viciously, and violently,” the judge told nine men convicted of grooming offenses in the northern towns of Oldham and Rochdale in 2012, adding, “Some of you acted as you did to satiate your lust, some to make money out of them. All of you treated them as though they were worthless and beyond all respect.”

The sexual abuse of children occurs in all human societies, but the forms it takes are culturally dependent. Like school shootings in the United States, grooming gangs are a particular type of crime that emerged from the laws and social conditions of a specific time and place. The gangs are not representative of the whole picture of what researchers call “group-based child sexual exploitation”—a phenomenon that in Britain appears to be dominated by men who are white, as you would expect from the makeup of the population. (England and Wales are more than 80 percent white, census data show; “Asian ethnic groups” are about 9 percent of the population.) Most grooming-gang defendants in the cases that have attracted media attention, however, were men of Pakistani descent. Many were connected to the nighttime economy, such as by running minicab firms and delivering takeout. They primarily targeted vulnerable girls—runaways or those who lived in foster homes. We know all this because of extensive reporting, testimony by victims and whistleblowers, and the bravery of politicians such as Ann Cryer and Sarah Champion, two Labour Party members of Parliament who were shunned by their own side for speaking out.

[Ali Breland: Elon Musk’s X endgame]

It is entirely reasonable to ask why they were shunned. In the 2000s and early 2010s, the racial dynamics of the grooming gangs made English towns extremely reluctant to face what was happening. Local South Asian communities were afraid to report the perpetrators in their midst. Police did not record complaints or investigate the issue actively; by some accounts, race riots in Oldham in 2001 made police emphasize “community cohesion” over what should have been their primary concern—dismantling organized-rape gangs regardless of the demographics of the perpetrators. White members of municipal councils fell into a pattern of assuming that problems among British Pakistanis were best left to their fellow councilors from that community. “Rotherham isn’t a very PC place, I think that is why the council overcompensated too much,” one local officer told an investigator in 2015. “It doesn’t want to be accused of being racist.”

Living through this story, experiencing the slow accretion of details and convictions and inquiries in real time, clearly felt very different from learning about it all at once. One of the main complaints to have surfaced since Musk reheated this story is that much of the original coverage was piecemeal and overly restrained: Had gangs of white men been trafficking immigrant women, it might have prompted a reckoning comparable to America’s protests over the 2020 murder of George Floyd. What qualifies as a “reckoning” is arguable—but I agree that the left would have raised hell about such a story, as the right has done with this one.

In response, some commentators, on both the left and right, have called for a “national conversation” about the gangs. What that conversation would sound like, however, is the tricky part. Would it include calls for the mass deportation of migrants, as many on Europe’s emergent right want? Is the answer militant secularization of Britain? Or a renewed insistence that the United Kingdom is a Christian country? Should Britain enact a “Muslim ban” or reject asylum seekers from Muslim-majority countries? When liberals are still queasy about engaging with this topic, it’s because they sense that these shadow arguments lie just out of sight.

Although Musk is powerful enough to draw new attention to the Rotherham scandal, polling suggests that most Britons see his interventions as opportunistic. The X owner has a deep animus toward Starmer, the Labour prime minister, whom Musk sees as an enemy of free speech in general and of his platform in particular. Many of Musk’s posts called for implausible scenarios such as the King dissolving Parliament or the country holding fresh elections, adding to the sense that Musk had not deeply researched the topic before picking up his phone to post.

Nonetheless, the Conservative opposition, led by Badenoch, pandered to him, demanding a fresh national inquiry to “join the dots.” That reverses the Tory position of a year ago—back when the party was in power and had the ability to commission whatever inquiries it deemed necessary. (In 2019, the future Prime Minister Boris Johnson said that investigating historic sex abuses was money “spaffed up a wall.”)

Badenoch’s decision to echo the Musk line also minimized the work that the Conservatives did do in government to tackle rape gangs. Former Prime Minister Rishi Sunak created a “grooming gangs task force” that has helped police make more than 550 arrests. The Tories also accepted that some sentences given to gang members had been too lenient, and proposed to create a new aggravating factor in sex offenses involving grooming. That will likely be included in the Crime and Policing Bill this spring, alongside a mandatory-reporting measure requiring social workers and others to notify police when they suspect children are being abused. Despite all that progress, Badenoch understands that calling for a new investigation is one of the few ways for an opposition leader to attract attention. (Today, Labour caved and promised a “rapid audit” and more funding for local inquiries.) Just as the activist left sometimes refuses to believe that civil-rights victories have been achieved—remaining instead in a state of politically lucrative perma-war—so the right will not claim victory in having already forced Britain to take these gangs seriously. Conservatives want the fight, not the win.

[Read: He’s no Elon Musk]

Intriguingly, Britain’s other right-wing party, Reform, has been less harmoniously in tune with Musk in the past couple of weeks than the Tories have. Reform’s leader, Nigel Farage, has joined Badenoch in calling for a new nationwide inquiry into the gangs. But he has refused to fulfill a peculiar demand from Musk: to normalize the pseudonymous agitator Tommy Robinson, whom the far right credits for making the grooming scandal public. Robinson, whose real name is Stephen Christopher Yaxley-Lennon, is not a folk hero. A founder of the xenophobic English Defence League, he risked collapsing one of the grooming trials by filming the defendants outside it. He is also a convicted mortgage fraudster and is currently in jail for contempt of court in a different case.

Robinson badly needs mainstream support to shake off his thuggish reputation, and Musk has taken up his cause. “Free Tommy Robinson!” Musk declared on X. He also faulted Farage—who has sought to keep racist “bad apples” out of Reform—for distancing himself from Robinson. Farage “doesn’t have what it takes,” Musk complained. Once again, the billionaire seemed out of touch with the British political scene: Farage, a key champion of Brexit, is the most successful leader that the British populist right has ever had. Reform won more than 4 million votes in last year’s election and looks set to make big gains in local contests in May.

To many Britons’ relief, Musk seems to be moving on to other subjects, including the California wildfires. His intervention has presented liberals with a difficult terrain to navigate. Yes, his interest was opportunistic. Yes, he spread conspiracy theories as well as the true scandalous details. But at least part of his instinctive reaction was correct: This was and is a scandal that shames Britain, as the Times asserted in 2012. It just isn’t a hidden one, thanks to the many victims and whistleblowers who have brought it into the open , beginning more than a decade ago. They deserve the tribute of having their bravery acknowledged.

The image that really got me on social media this week was a faded photo of a man and woman, standing on what looks like the front steps of their home. It’s a candid shot—both are focusing their attention on an infant cradled in the mother’s arm. It is likely one of the first photos of a new family, and the caption broke my heart: “This photo was blown into our yard during the Eaton Canyon fire. Anyone from Pasadena/Altadena recognize these people?”

The picture is perfectly intact, not singed or torn, yet it seems to represent an entire universe of loss. Staring at the photo, a piece of family history scattered by the same winds that fuel the Los Angeles fires, you can just begin to see the contours of what is gone. The kind of grief that cannot be inventoried in an insurance claim.

And then you scroll. A satellite photo of a charred, leveled neighborhood is sandwiched next to some career news. On Instagram, I see a GoFundMe for a woman who is nine months pregnant and just lost her house; it’s followed immediately by someone else’s ebullient ski-vacation photos and a skin-care advertisement. I proceed through the “For You” feed on X and find Elon Musk replying to a video where Alex Jones claims the fires are part of a globalist plot to ruin the United States (“True,” he said), and blaming the fires on DEI initiatives; then a shitpost about Meta’s content-moderation changes (“On my way to comment ‘retard’ on every facebook post,” it reads, with 297,000 views). I scroll again: “Celebrities Reveal How They REALLY Feel About Kelly Clarkson,” another post teases. This is followed by a post about a new red-flag warning in L.A.: The fire is not relenting.

[Read: The unfightable fire]

To watch the destruction in Los Angeles through the prism of our fractured social-media ecosystem is to feel acutely disoriented. The country is burning; your friends are going on vacation; next week Donald Trump will be president; the government is setting the fires to stage a “land grab”; a new cannabis-infused drink will help you “crush” Dry January. Mutual-aid posts stand alongside those from climate denialists and doomers. Stay online long enough and it’s easy to get a sense that the world is simultaneously ending and somehow indifferent to that fact. It all feels ridiculous. A viral post suggests that “climate change will manifest as a series of disasters viewed through phones with footage that gets closer and closer to where you live until you’re the one filming it.” You scroll some more and learn that the author of that post wrote the line while on the toilet (though the author has since deleted the confession).

Call it doomscrolling, gawking, bearing witness, or whatever you want, but there is an irresistible pull in moments of disaster to consume information. This is coupled with the bone-deep realization that the experience of staring at our devices while others suffer rarely provides the solidarity one might hope. Amanda Hess captured this distinctly modern feeling in a 2023 article about watching footage of dead Gazan children on Instagram: “I am not a survivor or a responder. I’m a witness, or a voyeur. The distress I am feeling is shame.”

For those on the ground, these networks mean something different. These people do not need to bear witness: They need specific information about their circumstances, and they need help. But the chaos of our social platforms and the splintered nature of a hollowed-out media industry extend the disorientation to them as well. “This time, I’m a civilian,” Matt Pearce, a Los Angeles–based journalist, wrote last week. “And this time, the user experience of getting information about a disaster unfolding around me was dogshit.” Anna Merlan, a reporter for Mother Jones, chronicled the experience of sifting through countless conspiracy theories and false-flag posts while watching the fires encroach on her home and packing her car to evacuate.

As I read these dispatches and watch helplessly from afar, the phrase time on site bangs around in my head. This is the metric that social-media companies optimize for, and it means what it sounds like: the amount of time that people spend on these apps. In recent years, there has been much handwringing over how much time users are spending on site; Tech-industry veterans such as Tristan Harris have made lucrative second careers warning of the addictive, exploitative nature of tech platforms and their algorithms. Harris’s crusade began in 2016, when he suggested a healthier metric of “time well spent,” which sought to reverse the “digital attention crisis.” This became its own kind of metric, adopted by Mark Zuckerberg in 2018 as Facebook’s north star for user satisfaction. Since then, the phrase has fallen out of favor. Harris rebranded his effort away from time well spent to a focus on “humane” technology.

But the worries persist. Parents obsess over the vague metric of “screen time,” while researchers write best-selling books and debate what, exactly, phones and social media are doing to kids and how to prove it. American politicians are so worried about time on site—especially when its by-product, metadata, is being collected by foreign governments—that the United States may very well ban TikTok, an app used by roughly one-third of the country’s adults. (In protest, many users have simply started spending time on another Chinese site, Xiaohongshu.) Many people suspect that time on site can’t be good for us, yet time on site also is how many of us learn about the world, form communities, and entertain ourselves. The experience of logging on and consuming information through the algorithmic morass of our feeds has never felt more dispiriting, commoditized, chaotic, and unhelpful than it does right now.

[Read: No one knows exactly what social media is doing to teens]

It is useful, then, to juxtapose this information ecosystem—one that’s largely governed by culture-warring tech executives and populated by attention seekers—with a true technological public good. Last week, I downloaded Watch Duty, a free app that provides evacuation notices, up-to-date fire maps, and information such as wind direction and air-quality alerts. The app, which was founded in 2021 after fires ravaged Sonoma County, California, has become a crucial piece of information infrastructure for L.A. residents and first responders. It is run by a nonprofit as a public service, with volunteer reporters and full-time staff who help vet information. Millions have downloaded the app just this month.

Watch Duty appears to be saving lives at a time when local-government services have been less than reliable, sending out incorrect evacuation notices to residents. It is a shining example of technology at its best and most useful, and so I was struck by something one of its co-founders, David Merritt, told to The Verge over the weekend: “We don’t want you to spend time in the app,” he said. “You get information and get out. We have the option of adding more photos, but we limit those to the ones that provide different views of a fire we have been tracking. We don’t want people doom scrolling.” This, he rightly argues, is “the antithesis of what a lot of tech does.”

The contrast between Watch Duty and broad swaths of the internet feels especially stark in the early days of 2025. The toxic incentives and environments of our other apps are as visible as ever, and the men behind these services—Musk and Zuckerberg especially—seem intent on making the experience of using them worse than ever. It’s all in service of engagement, of more time on site. Musk, who has transformed X into a superfund site of conspiracy theorizing, crypto ads, hateful posts, and low-rent memes, has been vehement that he wants his users to come to the platform and never leave. He has allegedly deprioritized hyperlinks that would take people away from the platform to other sites. (Musk did not deny that this is happening when confronted by Paul Graham, a Y Combinator co-founder.) He has his own name for the metric he wants X to optimize for: unregretted user seconds.

Zuckerberg recently announced his own version of the Muskian playbook, which seeks to turn his Meta platforms into a more lawless posting zone, including getting rid of fact-checkers and turning off its automated moderation systems on all content but “illegal and high-severity violations.” That system kept spam and disinformation content from flooding the platform. Make no mistake: This, too, is its own play for time on site. In an interview last month with the Financial Times, a Meta executive revealed that the company plans to experiment with introducing generative-AI-powered chatbots into its services, behaving like regular users. Connor Hayes, vice president of product for generative AI at Meta, says that this feature—which, I should add, nobody asked for—is a “priority” for the company over the next two years. This is supposed to align with another goal, which is to make its apps “more entertaining and engaging.”

This should feel more than disheartening for anyone who cares about or still believes in the promise of the internet and technology to broaden our worldview, increase resilience, and expose us to the version of humanity that is always worth helping and saving. Spending time on site has arguably never felt this bad; the forecast suggests that it will only get worse.

In recent days, I’ve been revisiting some of the work of the climate futurist Alex Steffen, who has a knack for putting language to our planetary crisis. The unprecedented disasters that appear now with more frequency are an example of discontinuity, where “past experience loses its value as a guide to decision-making about the future.” Steffen argues that we have no choice but to adapt to this reality and anticipate how we’ll survive it. He offers no panaceas or bromides. The climate crisis will come for each of us, but will affect us unevenly. We are not all in this together, he argues. But action is needed—specifically, proactive fixes that make our broken systems more effective and durable.

Clearly our information systems are in need of such work. They feel like they were built for a world we no longer inhabit. Most of them are run by billionaires who can afford to insulate themselves from reality, at least for now. I don’t see an end to the discontinuity or brokenness of our internet. But there are glimpses of resilience. Maybe platforms like Watch Duty offer a template. “I don’t want to sell this,” John Clarke Mills, the company’s CEO, told The Hollywood Reporter on Monday. He went further: “No one should own this. The fact that I have to do this with my team is not OK. Part of this is out of spite. I’m angry that I’m here having to do this, and the government hasn’t spent the money to do this themselves.” Mills’s anger is righteous, but it could also be instructive. Instead of building things that make us feel powerless, Mills is building tools that give people information that can be turned into agency.

There’s no tidy conclusion to any of this. There is loss, fear, anger, but also hope. Days later, I went to check back on the post that contained that photo of the man and woman with a child. I’d hoped that the internet would work its magic to reunite the photo with those who’d lost it. Throughout the replies are people trying to signal-boost the post. In one reply, a local news producer asks for permission to do a story about the photograph. Another person thinks they have a lead on the family. So far, there’s no happy ending. But there is hope.