How Facebook killed the internet

Reflecting on my childhood in the '90s, my father's words resonate deeply: "Never use your real name or address on the internet." This advice was simpler to follow back then. Our online interactions were mostly confined to forums where the idea of revealing our real names would never even cross our mind. We embraced aliases, usernames, nicknames, and pseudonyms, which granted us a liberating anonymity. It was a realm where you couldn't judge someone based on their appearance, where introductions might casually mention nationality or age, but even those tidbits were optional. You could express the silliest or most profound thoughts without fear of personal judgment.

This era felt alive with a spirit of mutual assistance and self-organization; it was truly exhilarating. Even as we progressed to voice communication tools like Mumble or Teamspeak, we clung to our pseudonyms, not unlike how we interact on Discord today.

4chan stands out from those times, notorious for its raw, unfiltered discourse, yet it wasn't as politically charged as it is now. Its policy of enforced anonymity, labeling every participant as "Anonymous," fascinated me. By the way, this is the origin of the similarly named cyber-activist group.

The shift began subtly, with transactions on platforms like Amazon requiring our real names and addresses. It made sense—these were direct, tangible exchanges. But in online communities, we remained veiled.

Everything changed with the arrival of Facebook. It presented itself as a private circle, a digital reflection of your personal contact list. For the first time, I entered my real name on a website, accompanied by a genuine photo of myself—actions unimaginable on any previous online forum. It felt safe, as if this information would remain within my chosen circle. Despite some opting for slight anonymity by tweaking their names, most of us laid our identities bare.

Around 2010, the debate around internet anonymity reached its peak, with contrasting views from Mark Zuckerberg and 4chan's founder. They exchanged through the media whether real names could sanitize online interactions or whether they stifled freedom of speech. I remember feeling torn, unsure which vision I supported.

Fifteen years on, my perspective has solidified. Facebook's ascent and the fortune it generated for its creators wasn't merely due to its novelty as a social network. Its success hinged on a deception: convincing us that sharing personal information, under the illusion of privacy, was harmless. We soon realized that our supposedly private data was accessible to a far broader audience than intended. It's startling how often we stumble upon a stranger's profile, accessing intimate details after a single awkward comment. This ease of access, once reserved for our eyes only, is now a commodity for any entity with internet access.

And here we are. Now everything about identity. Internet is a place where you show your face, name, city on personal billboards.

This, I believe, is why Facebook amassed its wealth. By unlocking this simple thing. This is what allowed them to do all the rest: OAuth login, targeted ads, APIs. It convinced us that handing over our personal data was safe, an assumption that fundamentally altered the internet's landscape. Looking back, I see how this shift not only enriched Facebook but also eroded the foundational principles of internet privacy and freedom.

So, what comes next? It's not about lamenting a bygone era; rather, it's about acknowledging its existence and recognizing our choices. There's a crucial reminder here: surrendering our identity isn't a prerequisite for participation in the digital world. We must champion the right to remain anonymous, emphasizing the value of what is said over who says it. For a long time, I've harbored a desire to voice my thoughts without the weight of my name or face attached. Not out of shame, but from a belief that personal details often detract rather than add to the discourse.

This is what motivated me to write this article. This fear I had and that I wanted to share. And by extension, I want to encourage those who remember the era I speak of and those curious about it: let's advocate for a web that preserves this option. Admittedly, anonymity might complicate revenue generation, but let's not forget our influence as developers. We've been instrumental in shaping the past two decades.

It's time we do so once more.