From BBSes and MUDs to the Algorithmic Feed
I still recall the days of dial-up modems, the soft whir of a 56k connection, the thrill of connecting to a board, sharing a message, maybe playing a MUD or MuSH late at night. For someone born in 1978 this was the wild young frontier of the internet: communities built by enthusiasts, mostly local or niche, with strong peer networks and relatively low scale.
In those early systems, the social layer was minimal. There were bulletin board systems (“BBSes”) you dialed into; MU*s (multi-user dungeons, multi-user shared hallucinations) where text commands and shared imagination formed the world; services like DALnet and TalNet (IRC networks) where chat rooms convened by topic. These were largely peer-to-peer or small-server communities, reputation was anchored in real familiarity, and the scale of interaction was bounded.
The next era saw the rise of sites like SixDegrees.com (1997) which allowed users to create a profile, list friends, form the network. Then came the heavy hitters: Friendster (2002), MySpace (2003), and Facebook (launched 2004, opened broadly late 2000s). These platforms shifted the dynamic: personal identity, friend lists, likes and shares became central. The article from Marketing Scoop notes that by 2025 nearly 59 % of the global population uses social media
A major inflection happened when the “feed” model replaced the static page-by-page model. For example the rollout of Facebook’s News Feed in 2006 changed how people encountered information: no longer just your direct friends, but a stream shaped by algorithms, attention, advertising.
This shift means:
Your “audience” expanded dramatically. You might write something for friends but it gets liked/shared beyond them.
The algorithm rewarded what kept people engaged Emotional, surprising, controversial content tends to drive more engagement.
The cost of speaking went down; the visibility went up. One post could reach thousands, tens of thousands, millions.
The context collapsed: your friends, acquaintances, strangers, even adversaries were all in the same feed. The subtlety of the smaller-group norms of the BBS era was lost.
As history summaries note, social media evolved not just as technology but as an economic and cultural force. For example: “Social media history encompasses a far greater period than many might expect … when many social media activities were already happening.”
Platforms monetized attention. Every reaction, share, like, comment is both social feedback and data; platforms structured their interfaces and ranking to maximize that. This creates systemic pressures: content that shocks, provokes, polarizes tends to perform better.
Consequently, what you see in your feed may skew toward what works to keep you looking, not necessarily what your close community values. That’s not a conspiracy; it’s a design impulse baked into the business model.
When you combine the feed model + algorithmic ranking + scale + weak ties (people in your feed you barely know) you get fertile ground for negativity, call-outs, shaming, trolling. Some key contributing factors:
Negativity bias: human psychology tends to attend to negative information more strongly; platforms amplify that because they reward engagement.
Low cost, high visibility: Posting a hostile comment, or a call-out, or a provocative take takes less effort, but can reach many.
Identity-and-group dynamics: When posts touch identity, values, or group belonging (which social media increasingly do) the reactions are stronger and faster.
Audience pressure: Because we’re often speaking to an audience we don’t know personally, signaling becomes more important than nuance. From dog whistles to virtue flagging, signaling your intent and social positioning often outperform nuance and content.
Context collapse: On BBSes you vaguely knew your community; on public feeds you often don’t. That means norms can shift quickly, and what is acceptable in one group is toxic in another.
Thus the shift: from smaller, interest-driven networks (BBSes, MUDs, early forums) to massive public-facing platforms where everything is visible and exposure is high. The old norms of mutual recognition, slower pace, fewer spectators, weaker incentives for spectacle have changed.
Now let’s pivot into how the hobby and subculture of live action role-play (LARP) can be infinitely more susceptible to many of the dynamics we just described. You run LARP, you design systems, you know the terrain and the online layer has introduced new vulnerabilities. Speaking specifically about LARP and LARP cultures, there are inherent dynamics working against LARPs ability to create prolonged health cultures.
High emotional investment and identity overlap. LARP blends role, character, player. Participants often invest deeply in identity, narrative, community. Research on LARP group dynamics shows unique tension because groups operate across multiple layers: immersive roleplay and out-of-character social interaction. The richer the investment, the stronger the emotional reactions when stuff goes wrong.
Visibility and cross-community comparison. In the old physical/hobby era you played a local game; your conflicts, resolution, norms were inside the circle. They had context Now, forums, Facebook groups, Reddit, Discord servers surface the conversation. A problem in one game can get visible to hundreds or thousands. A call-out or a disagreement becomes public drama and engagement. Social media algorithms reward content that furthers engagement regardless of how much rewarding and amplifying this content could inflate/ complicate/ escalate a situation rather than actually addressing the issue and assisting those involved in healthier communication or the ability to disengage and take actions that are needed for safety and health.
Weak ties + core/periphery dynamics. LARP culture often divides into core organizers and more casual participants. When peripheral participants feel neglected or harmed, they may take the story online. When organizers respond publicly (or not at all) it becomes spectacle. The weaker the relational glue, the more the online narrative takes over the real face-to-face community trust.
So, what does this all mean? If this evolving landscape of online interaction within LARP culture is not handled thoughtfully, the long-term consequences could reshape the hobby in subtle but profound ways. The first and most immediate risk is the erosion of trust and belonging. When participants fear that a misstep could result in public shaming rather than constructive dialogue, the culture of play shifts from a learning community to a performance under scrutiny. People may choose to withdraw rather than risk exposure, and smaller, informal groups that rely on interpersonal trust could disappear entirely. Over time, the LARP world could splinter into two parallel spheres: one that presents a polished, professional image with much larger ticket costs and another that survives quietly in grassroots, local settings.
This fear of public critique also raises the barrier to entry. Newcomers, seeing the culture of online callouts and criticism, might hesitate to step into a space where the cost of learning feels as if it were not worth the risk. If the community becomes known for judgment rather than mentorship, its diversity and creativity will narrow. The willingness to experiment or take narrative risks could fade as people retreat toward what feels safe and acceptable to the public eye. As attention and branding dominate, what the hobby values may change as well. Public perception and social media signaling and messaging can become stronger motivators than powerful narratives or artistic exploration. Events that once prized emotional authenticity and player connection may begin to prioritize photo opportunities, morality and society focused P.R. messaging, and viral moments. The pull toward spectacle can alienate long-time designers and players who value intimacy and narrative experimentation over public polish.
For organizers, the pressures of visibility can lead to exhaustion. As online discourse expands, organizers often find themselves treated like public figures rather than facilitators of community experience. Mistakes, disagreements, or even minor misunderstandings can quickly turn into online drama that consumes time, energy, and goodwill. This cycle of hypervisibility can cause burnout and lead some organizers to withdraw completely or restrict their spaces, which narrows opportunities for openness and exchange.
While organizers and designers set the stage for how a community might function, the truth is that the greatest influence now rests in the hands of the players themselves. Each post, photograph, and public comment shared by participants does more to define how the hobby is perceived than any rulebook or official announcement. What once lived in the private space of events now exists in constant conversation with the broader online world. The collective tone of those conversations can elevate the hobby or fracture it further.
Designers can model structure and intent, but it is the daily rhythm of player communication that determines what the culture feels like from the outside looking in. A thousand individual voices have more reach than a single organizer’s message. The ways players speak about one another, the stories they choose to tell, and the care they show in disagreement all combine into the living reputation of LARP itself. In a connected world, community stewardship is no longer a top-down task but a shared act of authorship.
Social media rewards intensity, not balance, and that truth shapes how the hobby is perceived beyond the field. A single post about heartbreak, frustration, or a falling out can spread faster and wider than weeks of players celebrating good memories. Even simple expressions of sadness about leaving a game can echo outward as evidence of decline, loss, or toxicity, especially when repeated across dozens of personal feeds. The algorithms that surface “what people are talking about” rarely highlight quiet joy or lasting friendship. They spotlight the sharpest edges, amplifying grief and anger until they seem to define the entire experience.
This distortion has consequences. When interpersonal conflicts between two players are reframed as “LARP drama,” the line between private tension and public spectacle disappears. Outsiders scrolling through their feeds see not the years of creativity, collaboration, and care that go into the hobby, but a stream of sorrow and accusation. Posts meant for personal catharsis become the public face of the community. When moral judgment replaces curiosity and understanding, when one participant calls another out for failing to meet an ever-shifting ideal of virtue, the hobby’s shared image erodes further. What was once a space for imagination and connection begins to look, from the outside, like a place defined by conflict rather than creation.
Yet there remains a potential for resilience and reinvention. The same transparency that exposes flaws can also prompt meaningful reform. Communities that take critique seriously without resorting to punishment can emerge stronger. When organizers invest in clear codes of conduct, consent education, and better moderation practices, they model a form of digital and in-person governance that makes LARP sustainable in the long run. By consciously designing their online presence to reflect their values rather than their anxieties, these groups can adapt to the algorithmic environment without being consumed by it.
Looking ahead, the hobby may evolve into two complementary but distinct worlds. Local events, grounded in personal relationships and shared accountability, might reclaim the slow, trusting atmosphere of earlier eras. In contrast, one shot or festival global events with large online following but no single sense of community will likely continue to embrace the visibility and marketing potential of modern social media. Each approach will carry its own risks and rewards. The smaller communities may preserve the soul of the hobby, while the larger, branded spaces will wrestle with the challenges of scale, exposure, and price point inflation. How the balance settles between these two forms may determine not just how LARP is seen, but what it ultimately becomes.
