Imagine having a digital butler who insists on bringing you dessert nonstop, urging you to have just one more slice of cake. Each piece is sweet, each bite gives a quick rush—and the butler never once offers a balanced meal. In our online world, that metaphorical butler is the algorithmic design of our favorite platforms, serving up an endless buffet of short videos, clickbait headlines, and fleeting social feeds. Think of it as dessert = clicks = revenue. The more superficial hits we consume, the richer certain players get. And so, the shallowfication of digital content—and of our attention—becomes a lucrative business model.
Below, we’ll explore who profits from shallow engagement. We’ll start with the broader economics of attention, then dive into the design tricks (like infinite scroll and push notifications) that keep us snacking, and finally look at the platforms and industries that win big in this setup. Along the way, we’ll see that technology isn’t inherently evil, but as long as more time equals more money, the incentives point squarely toward shallow engagement.
In the digital economy, attention is currency. We may not pay cash for many services—Facebook, YouTube, TikTok—but we do pay with our time and personal data. Platforms convert those into advertising dollars, making billions through a marketplace where advertisers bid for slices of our focus. The logic is simple:
This is why you’ll often see the refrain, “If you’re not paying for the product, you are the product.” It’s also why online advertising is projected to surpass $1 trillion globally in the near future. Tech giants like Google can rake in hundreds of billions just by capturing and commodifying our attention.
But money isn’t the only endgame. Data itself is gold. Every click, linger, like, and share becomes fodder for building profiles that can be sold to advertisers—or harnessed by political campaigns and data brokers. Shoshana Zuboff famously called this “surveillance capitalism”, where our personal lives become raw material for targeted persuasion. Either way, it translates to the same core incentive:
More time spent = More data gathered = More ads shown = More profit.
It’s no coincidence that a former Facebook executive bluntly admitted the platform’s objective was to “suck as much time out of your life as possible, then sell that attention to advertisers.” Netflix’s CEO quipped they’re in competition with sleep—and so far, they’re winning. In an ad-driven ecosystem, superficial or sensational content tends to grab attention more efficiently, meaning shallowfication becomes not just an accident but a profitable strategy.
If the attention economy sets the reward for shallow engagement, user-experience designers provide the recipes that hook us. Common tactics include:
Ever find yourself scrolling a feed that never ends, or streaming episode after episode automatically? Infinite scroll eliminates the natural stopping points that once let us catch our breath. As the inventor of this feature, Aza Raskin, put it, “If you don’t give your brain time to catch up, you’ll keep scrolling.” It’s so powerful that Raskin likened it to “behavioral cocaine” sprinkled across interfaces. Auto-play similarly keeps us watching or listening well beyond our initial intent.
Those little red badges on your phone or pop-up alerts on your home screen are not innocent. They operate on a variable reward schedule (the same principle that slot machines use). Sometimes you’ll find something juicy—validation, a funny comment, a surprise message—and sometimes you won’t. But the possibility that this time it might be a big payoff keeps you tapping. Over time, it forms a habit loop that can be hard to break.
Quick, visible indicators of affirmation—thumbs up, hearts, angry-face emojis—offer tiny hits of dopamine. Platforms discovered that posts prompting strong emotional reactions (positive or negative) drive higher engagement. In fact, for a period, Facebook’s algorithm gave five times more weight to an “angry” reaction than a simple like. Why? More intense emotion = more time spent. Other platforms use streaks or badges to keep you obsessively checking back. All of this nudges us toward frequent, shallow taps rather than deep exchanges.
Dark patterns are UI features that subtly coerce or trick you into certain behaviors—often not in your best interest. Infinite scroll is one; so are confusing unsubscribe mechanisms or pop-ups that shame you if you try to leave. They exist to reduce friction between you and staying longer or doing more. If the platform’s business model is to maximize your engagement, it’s no surprise designers keep inventing clever ways to keep you tethered.
Tristan Harris, Google’s former design ethicist, calls this the “race to the bottom of the brainstem.” Platforms test myriad variations to find the ones that trigger your primal impulses. Outrage, curiosity, fear, tribalism—these are all potent levers. If it spikes engagement, the algorithm learns to show you more of it. It’s the digital butler again, offering endless dessert, unconcerned about nutritional value. As long as you keep nibbling, the platform’s profits go up.
So who’s getting rich off shallowfication? Tech giants and their advertising partners sit at the top of the pyramid, aided by an array of content creators who reap short-term gains by feeding our appetite for quick hits.
All these platforms rely on ad revenue, meaning they need scale (billions of users) and constant micro-engagement (scrolls, taps, swipes). Content that is brief, provocative, or emotionally charged outperforms the thoughtful or the nuanced because it yields more events.
Online journalism competes in the same “attention lottery.” Pageviews mean ad dollars. This has fueled clickbait headlines and sensational reporting. Some outlets pivot to subscription models, but many still chase shallow engagement. With aggregator sites (Google News, Apple News) and social feeds reshuffling headlines at lightning speed, lengthy investigative pieces often lose out to simpler, louder stories that get clicks.
Even education isn’t immune. Apps and online courses incorporate gamification and short, easily digestible lessons to reduce dropout rates. While that can be helpful, it can also stray into edutainment, where the real metric is retention rather than true understanding. Mastery demands depth—something the attention economy tends not to reward.
By integrating infinite scroll, quick purchase buttons, and constant alerts, shopping apps foster a frictionless environment for impulse buys. And every product click or time spent browsing is another data point for recommender systems to feed you more of what might hook you next.
Netflix’s auto-play features encourage marathon viewing. TikTok thrives on snappy videos. Music streaming favors instantly catchy songs that avoid being skipped. The entire entertainment sector leans toward addictive design to keep audiences around longer—measured by hours spent, not necessarily quality experienced.
The net result? A vast economic ecosystem that survives, and often thrives, on superficial engagement. The design strategies that give us short, sensational content are lucrative for platforms. Cumulatively, they wield massive power—both shaping culture and reaping billions.
If it’s easy to consume, it’s easy to monetize—because shallow content:
In an attention economy, superficial interactions are simply scalable. A user who reads one in-depth piece for 10 minutes is less profitable than one who skims 10 separate headlines in the same span—loading new ads each time.
This system is like feeding an entire population on popcorn: superficially tasty, but woefully lacking in nutrition. By design, the platforms keep refilling your bucket, and the more you eat, the more they earn. The “winners” in this game include:
In effect, our distraction is their profit. The more we nibble at junk-food content, the more data we generate, the more ads we watch, the more ad money pours in. Meanwhile, we’re left overstimulated yet undernourished.
A shallow diet of digital content doesn’t just fill corporate coffers; it also has real costs:
The design is so effective that even the engineers who built these systems sometimes lament their creations. A former Google designer, Tristan Harris, called it “a race to the bottom of the brainstem,” tapping our most primal instincts to keep us engaged. The question becomes: How does a modern society thrive when its digital architecture incentivizes endless tasting over genuine nourishment?
Understanding who makes money from shallowfication shines a spotlight on why digital life is so dominated by scrolling, swiping, and superficial hits. It’s not a grand conspiracy of evil tech lords—it’s a system shaped by advertising revenue and user engagement metrics. The platforms are just extraordinarily good at catering to our natural impulses (curiosity, novelty-seeking, fear of missing out).
If we want a healthier digital diet, we have to change the incentives. That might involve:
The digital butler—those algorithms—could be reprogrammed to occasionally serve vegetables alongside the dessert. But as it stands, the dessert is what turns a profit. Until users, governments, or innovative entrepreneurs disrupt these dynamics, the buffet of shallow content will keep expanding. It’s a powerful insight to realize: We are not just customers; we’re also the commodity. Our most precious resource—attention—has been harnessed to fuel a trillion-dollar industry that prefers we stay on the surface.
Moving forward, the big challenge is to realign technology with genuine human needs. Because, as countless studies and personal experiences show, deep engagement fosters creativity, learning, empathy, and personal growth. Yet that’s not where the money is today. Just like adjusting one’s diet for better health, escaping the shallowfication trap requires conscious effort—both individually and collectively.
The next time you find yourself scrolling endlessly, pause and picture that digital butler, dessert tray in hand, pushing another sugary slice under your nose. Then ask: Who benefits from me staying here? The answer might be sobering. After all, recognizing how the system works is the first step toward demanding something better.