Chandlersweb.net

Category: Rambles and Thoughts

  • From Player to Customer

    From Player to Customer

    While I’m only 30, I increasingly feel like I’m in a nursing home, complaining to my grandkids about how things used to be as they lead me to the bathroom because I shit myself.

    “Kids, when I was your age, video games used to be products, not services,” I tut. “You’d buy a game and own it outright; none of this DLC crap.”

    “Sure, grandpa…” my granddaughter says after cleaning me up. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

    Video games were an integral part of my childhood, and I have vivid memories of walking to Target with my dad to buy titles like The Sims 2, Fallout 3, and Mass Effect — all for PC DVD-ROM. After running home and installing whatever I’d bought, I’d then immediately start playing. I owned physical copies of these games, and even if I’d leave them out of their cases, causing the discs to get scratched (as I often did), they were mine.

    In the early-to-mid 2000s, series like The Sims began to gradually increase the number of expansion packs they released. While I found this frustrating (as my dad did too; he, after all, funded my gaming addiction), these expansions generally added exciting new features to games. My Sims, for example, went from living in sprawling mansions and perennial summers to apartments with pets, as the seasons changed and they danced at clubs every night. During this era, video game companies — including larger corporations — seemed genuinely interested in making fun products for their customers, and the love for their creations shone through in the final products.

    But as I blinked and two decades flashed by, something changed.

    While I still enjoy gaming, every title I play today I launch through Steam, which, while convenient, means I don’t technically own my games. Instead, I purchase licenses to play them — something that Valve could yank away at any time. (Amazon did this exact thing to Kindle users when it removed, of all titles, 1984.) My custom-built computer doesn’t even have a DVD drive, and microtranscations from the frivolous to the insulting have infested series as distant as The Sims and Assassin’s Creed.

    Often, this desire for profit is evident not just in bloated menus clogged with advertisements, but in the quality of games themselves. While digital artists continue to pour their hearts into their creations, executive boards frequently push studios into releasing half-baked, buggy titles that feel lightyears away from being customer-ready. Series like The Sims have shifted from products to services; from something you purchase once and enjoy to something designed to extract ongoing investment.

    Today, many games have entire portions of content locked away, only to be sold back to customers in subsequent DLCs. Depending on the title, players can expect to invest hundreds — and sometimes even thousands — of dollars to play games in their entirety. And while some releases are so abhorrently barebones that companies are forced to grunt out half-hearted apologies, many seem content to screw people over.

    Why? Because they can.

    As Cory Doctorow explains in his book Enshittification:

    Companies don’t treat you well because they’re “good” capitalists, and they don’t abuse you because they’re “bad” capitalists… Companies abuse you if they can get away with it.

    Companies like Electronic Arts, Activision Blizzard, and Embracer Group have been allowed to gobble up competitors, mistreat their workers, and erode trust with loyal players. EA, in particular, stands as a bleak example of corporate greed — the company went from funding innovative titles to ruining longstanding series like SimCity. As of writing this, EA is poised to be acquired by Saudi Arabia’s Public Investment Fund (PIF) in 2026. If the deal proceeds, the $55 billion buyout would give the despotic regime ownership over 93.4% of the company, with the remaining 6.6% going to Silver Lake and Affinity Partners — the latter of which was founded by none other than Jared Kushner. (And notably, the PIF is already a “significant investor” in both firms).

    As a longtime video gamer, all of this is depressing, but you don’t have to look far to find other industries where corporate ghouls are living out their wettest, wildest, and most exploitative dreams. Digital design software paywalling color packs; tech giants fighting tooth and nail against Right to Repair legislation; streaming services that now have ads unless you pay more. Enshittification is ubiquitous, and it’s forcing us to spend money on purchases and subscriptions that would’ve seemed absurd just a few years ago.

    In protest, I’ve begun making the shift back to physical media wherever possible. While making space for boxes of video games and Blu-ray discs is far from enjoyable, I see it as a necessary evil — I’d rather create clutter than give another cent to the companies hollowing out what we used to enjoy. And while drawing a line in the metaphorical sand feels empowering, it’s crucial to recognize that individual choices alone won’t impact the powers at play. EA, after all, is being acquired for 55 thousand million dollars.

    As Doctorow highlights in his book, escaping the depths of enshittification hell will require a combination of four factors:

    1. A return to staunch antitrust enforcement (something we briefly saw under FTC Chair Lina Khan)
    2. Strong competition that keeps companies innovating, instead of abusing
    3. Empowered workers that can restrain executive overreach
    4. Interoperability that lets us own, repair, share, and do whatever the fuck we want with the products we purchase

    We’ll never be able to convince the handful of ketamine-addled sociopaths wrecking society to care about us. Instead, we need to demand it through legislation and worker power. And while things in the United States may seem bleak at the moment (Trump is almost certainly the embodiment of political enshittifcation) the movement to check corporate greed is growing across many parts of the world.

    I’ll always be a gamer, and despite disappointing trends, I’ve still been able to find incredible titles that have made me feel like I was a child again, unopened copy of a new video game in-hand. But I look forward to the day when video game companies — and corporations in other industries — are forced to show us the dignity we deserve.

  • Transit Dreams: A Diary

    Transit Dreams: A Diary

    From Issue One of Alternative Webs, releasing soon.

    Atlanta

    I board the train, first taking in the smells. Old Spice and weed, most likely? It could be worse. A man sits near me, a full rotisserie chicken in-hand. That throws a new smell into the mix. We start moving as a static-garbled voice belts out our final destination.

    The train passes over a highway clogged with commuters returning home. I try to calculate how many cars I’m looking at – 300? 500? I wonder whether the people in them drive to work every day. How much time does that eat out of their lives? I don’t have answers, and city planners probably don’t either. They should, though.

    Early 2000s hip-hop plays through my headphones as I fly above the asphalt doomscape beneath me, ruminating. All the world’s ills, sittin’ on chrome 24-inch wheels. Numerous podcasts and audiobooks undoubtedly play beneath me, the drivers trying their hardest not to crash.

    As the train approaches my station, I gather my belongings, double-checking that I have everything. Phone, wallet, keys – yes, all there. The doors open and I step out as another man steps in, dragging his entire livelihood behind him in a tattered blue IKEA bag.

    I watch him disappear down the aisle as I walk away.

    Nanjing

    Air conditioning blasts throughout the car, fighting a fierce battle against the oppressive heat and humidity outside. As the lush greenery of Xianlin disappears behind me, I arrive at my transfer station. Three minutes until the next train – I’ll need to run. I make it, slipping through the doors with seconds to spare, and take a seat. The train begins hurtling towards the beating heart of the city.

    Students returning home laugh and chat. Tired workers scroll on their phones. An older man boards the train halfway through the trip – I stand up to offer my seat, but he smiles and shakes his head.

    I spend an hour decompressing, listening to Amy Winehouse and the Big Little Lies soundtrack. Halfway through the journey, Spotify stutters. I check my phone – what’s going on? Ah – VPN crash. I reset it, and the music resumes.

    I think of my upcoming trips to Hong Kong and Thailand. Of the long day at work I’ll have tomorrow. Of being thousands of miles away from home.

    The speaker chimes: “鼓楼站，到了。”(Now arriving at Gulou Station.)

    Maybe I’m not that far from home.

    Istanbul

    The third iteration of the adhan, Asr, has just begun. The muezzin’s voice echoes across the city, reverberating across two continents and the gray waters between them.

    Ash-hadu an la ilaha ill-Allah.

    As the devout pray, I board a tram running through the center of the congested streets, struggling to stand amongst the throngs of people in the packed car. A group of fashionable teenagers in leather jackets and Adidas sneakers are on their way to a concert. They jostle for positions as we begin moving.

    Ash-hadu anna Muhammadar-Rasulullah.

    Over the heads of those around me, I watch a chilly breeze toss seagulls around the dark, late-afternoon sky. A solitary ray of sunshine breaks through, illuminating a portion of the twinkling sea beneath it.

    The tram rolls forward as a man beside me mutters Turkish into his phone. The woman across from me clutches her headscarf. I stare out at the sea.

    Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun begins to set. I’m disoriented – is it setting over Asia? Europe? Maybe it doesn’t matter.

    The tram continues moving, as do I.

  • Writer Beware: Avoid the Content Mill

    Writer Beware: Avoid the Content Mill

    Like many other freelance writers, I stumbled into the industry somewhat by accident. Before COVID-19, I had been living a cushy life abroad, basking in the satisfaction of not having to update my LinkedIn. But with the start of the pandemic, I fled back home and found myself confronted with the reality of needing to find a job. 

    I spent the first half of 2020 searching, applying to everything from marketing positions to openings at local coffee shops and bookstores. Whether because of the pandemic, a lack of tangible experience, or the general state of the U.S. job market, I struggled to land anything concrete. 

    But on a random spring day, a chance conversation with a friend led me to apply for a job I’d never before considered—a freelance content writing position. My friend who worked there explained that the company always had a lot of work to offer and that as long as you hustled, you could make some decent money. 

    I applied, got accepted, and began supporting myself like half of all Americans do—by freelancing. Over time, my new writing job became my sole source of income, my mental health started to stagger, and I found myself in the grips of a trap shared by many. I was working for an exploitative content mill. 

    Content Mills 101 

    To new writers or anyone outside the industry, a content mill is a company that employs scores of freelance workers to add SEO, or search engine optimization, value to a website. 

    If Bobby’s Sweet Treats wants to attract more online traffic, it can turn to a content mill for help. The content mill will use its writers to craft SEO-optimized web copy and blog posts to satisfy Google’s algorithm. When done correctly, the Bobby’s Sweet Treats website will then show up at the top of search results. 

    While it may sound harmless, SEO is often the bane of internet users as it creates redundant and unnecessarily lengthy content. If you’ve ever read a guide or listicle that you feel like you’ve seen ten times before, it’s because you probably have.

    In terms of profit margins and business strategy, however, content mills are genius. They’re able to satisfy clients while outsourcing their work and keeping overhead costs low. Unfortunately, the hoards of freelancers they employ often see very little of the company’s success.

    The Red Pill Realization  

    Alyssa Cokinis, a freelance writer and theater artist, has a story that mirrors mine. Due to COVID-19, she found herself looking for a job and wound up working for a content mill. 

    “When I first discovered the content mill I worked at, I appreciated the diversity of topics and the general flexibility,” Alyssa says. “I could work whenever and wherever I wanted. It was a great way to supplement my income, as I was working another freelance gig and had been laid off from my more permanent position due to COVID-19.” 

    After a time, however, the magic began to wear off. Alyssa, like most freelance workers, realized that she was working for peanuts. With that realization, the veneer of excitement and opportunity started to crack. 

    “My feelings towards the content mill changed quicker than I anticipated. A freelance writer friend of mine who regularly pitches and writes for publications expressed concern at how low the rates were. That was red flag number one. Then, my mental health and concentration began to wane with each article I wrote because I would only get around $30/1000 words.” 

    Before she could fully understand what was happening, Alyssa found herself needing an escape. 

    “When you’re churning out content and you have to survive in this world, 3 cents/word is not sustainable, nor is working without any benefits,” she says. “Eventually, I had to get out and look for an hourly job just to get a regular income and not destroy my love of writing.”

    While different experts offer different advice, a general freelancing rule is to avoid taking work that pays less than 20 cents/word. Alyssa’s content mill offered 3 cents/word, and while that’s undoubtedly low, it’s still far from the bottom of the barrel. 

    On ProBlogger and other freelance job boards, it’s not uncommon to find content mills offering writers a set rate of $10/article, no matter the length. What’s most disheartening is that people take those jobs out of desperation, allowing those companies to continue their exploitative practices. 

    Making Lemons out of Lemonade  

    While content mills might try their best to take advantage of hungry freelancers, some manage to make the most of them—at least for a time. Kiki Dy is one such writer. Although she has bylines in Fodors, Psychedelic Spotlight, the Pheonix, and other publications, she continued to work for her old content mill until recently. 

    “I used to begin my work days by warming up with an hour of QC work for my old content mill,” Kiki tells me. “It was mindless, straightforward, and even a bit relaxing—until they did the classic content mill maneuver and became even more of micromanaging jerks.”

    Kiki had the strength to withstand and even make the most of an exploitative work relationship. But after a while, the company culture coupled with unreasonable demands became too much.

    “Between their infantile emoji use and corny mantras like ‘we’re a family,’ my content mill was run by a bunch of passive-aggressive people who really didn’t know anything about the craft of web copy and certainly didn’t know how much to pay us. They spoke to us like babies, would make suggestions that made the content worse, and, once they installed software that let them know how much time each writer was spending on each assignment, I decided it was no longer worth it, even for the mindless money.” 

    While she managed to turn a toxic work environment into a positive one for a while, Kiki eventually decided that it was time to leave that part of her career behind. After all, “mindless money” isn’t hard to make, and it should never come from a source that adds unnecessary stress to your life. 

    Content Mills: An Unnecessary Evil

    Working for a content mill can be a solid way to make money in the short term, especially if other job opportunities are few and far between. That said, relying on them for too long can put you on a fast track to a mental health crisis. 

    Content mills rob you of your ability to pursue other writing opportunities and force you to prioritize quantity over quality. They advertise themselves as career stepping stones, but most writers who work for them end up feeling stuck. My advice? Avoid them altogether and instead, use resources like Write Jobs Plus+.

    Times will be tough—especially if you don’t have another source of income and you’re trying to launch your career. But once you finally make it over the initial hump and find a client that meets your standards, you’ll thank yourself for not settling for less than you’re worth.