When popular culture became personal.

The internet was in the middle of a seismic shift at the beginning of the 2010s. The Silicon Valley tech boom was in full swing and by this point, social media companies like Facebook and Twitter had become legitimate cultural influencers, same with places like Netflix, Venmo and Uber. The 2000s had seen the business world struggle to put their arms around what the internet could do for their bottom line, but by the end of the decade, everyone had a pretty strong handle on it, and that meant for everyday people, the internet was already something to be taken for granted. iPhones had been around for years. Having the internet available at all times was normal.

Popular culture was tech-savvy, and by 2010 people were starting to transition from “how do we teach people to use the internet” to “how do we take advantage of a world where everyone uses the internet.” A digital world meant new types of consumers, new demands, and a new type of supplier ready to meet those demands.

From the vantage point of 2019 and 2020, the previous paragraph carries dark implications, but in 2010, Silicon Valley was in full “change the world” mode. Riffing off of Apple’s sleek, 1984-but-with-a-heart style of presentation, tech companies began selling themselves not as marketers, but as global innovators. They weren’t creating products, they were serving deepfelt human needs. They were helping, bro!

Instagram began under this service-oriented mindset, but it would eventually evolve into something much, much more than a problem-solver.

Kevin Systrom and Mike Krieger, Instagram’s co-founders, once explained their app was made to “empower people to share something they love and feel good sharing it.” They understood that with the proliferation of smartphones, it was easier to take pictures than ever, but there was still a problem with sharing photos in a convenient way. Facebook’s photo sharing function was arduous and multi-step (sync your phone to your computer, download your photos to your hard drive, pull up Facebook, upload the photos from your hard drive to your profile, arrange those photos into albums, then share), and besides desktop-bound social media, there wasn’t much else to do with those photos anyway. Really, what else was there to do with your photos before Instagram? Print them out? Make a slideshow of your vacation? Remember when digital picture frames were a thing?

Instagram arrives to make photo sharing easy, and while in its early stages that ease was confined to just displaying photos, it would soon spread to making the photos themselves look beautiful, thanks to frames and filters and the subsequent iPhones’ better and better cameras. Knowingly or not, Instagram was built on a model of self-affirmation: People used Instagram because Instagram made them feel good about themselves, and by extension, it gave the impression your self-affirmation would be compounded by the affirmation of others. Your empowerment could not reach a consensus.

While it took time for the Instagram concept to fully form[1], the app was an overnight hit when Systrom and Krieger put it on the iOS App Store in October 2010. Instagram had 25,000 downloads in its first 24 hours, and by 2011, it would have 10 million users and be worth $20 million[2].

The first sign of Instagram’s forward-thinking mindset was its exclusivity to mobile devices. In the late 2000s, tech companies were still building their products with desktop computers in mind. Corporations and media companies saw mobile apps and mobile functionality as accessories to main lines of communication, but IG intuited that consumers craved the simplicity and convenience of their phones above a stationary computer.

They were right. Instagram never existed on anything but cell phones, and it never suffered for it. In fact, to this day, you can’t even interact with Instagram on anything except your phone. You can view profiles on a desktop, but there’s no way to post on a computer; you have to use the app. It might sound like a restriction or a bug, but considering IG’s growth and popularity and the state of general tech consumption at the end of this decade, the only logical takeaway is that mobile exclusivity isn’t restrictive at all.

By 2012, Instagram was soaring, and at that stage, it was Systrom and Krieger’s vision idealized. It was easier than ever to share pictures you were confident about, and the app existed largely as a feel-good experience. Instagram’s filter feature, however faux-artsy it is, boomed during this period, too, becoming so popular it almost became a standard of amateur-photography[3], and concepts like the double-tap were almost as ubiquitous as “liking” something or retweeting it. As far as its founders were concerned, Instagram had solved the problem it set out to fix. World changed. Check.

Enter Facebook.

As Instagram gained cultural cache, Mark Zuckerberg’s Facebook mutated from social network to global dominator (at least behind the scenes—publicly, Facebook wouldn’t gain its nefarious reputation until privacy scandals rocked the company in the late 2010s). Facebook had what those in the business call “fuck-you money,” and the company was throwing it around like it had come from a board-game bank, mainly to acquire rising competitors. In 2012, this wasn’t seen as problematic as it might be now. Facebook was generally still seen as a scrappy gang of nerds—the company made by the d-bags in The Social Network movie[4]—not what both liberals and conservatives would call a “greedy corporation.”

Regardless, in September 2012 Facebook buys Instagram for a cool $1 billion. At the time, it was one of the biggest tech acquisitions in history, but today the deal’s legacy has morphed into something like a heist. Because while Facebook demonstrated Systrom and Krieger’s idealized version of Instagram was worth 10 figures, they guessed a more aggressively monetized version of IG could be worth much, much more.

Early on, the relationship between Facebook-the-parent and Instagram-the-stepchild was fairly hands-off. Systrom and Krieger could continue to run their app however they wanted, but the acquisition did mandate some small but significant tech integrations between the platforms.

First, Facebook installed its seamless sign-in system to IG, knocking down several barriers between users and the in-app experience. Facebook also integrated their tagging feature—so IG users could link other accounts inside their posts—before introducing a slew of their “nudge” reminders, which served to bug dormant app users who hadn’t opened the program in a while. These nudges are the little notifications you receive to the effect of: “Your friends haven’t heard from you in a while—tell them what you’re up to!” In short, it’s a way for apps to boost engagement.

While some of these new features worked to streamline Instagram’s user experience, they all served to keep people on Instagram longer, and that became Facebook’s MO across their entire business model as the decade progressed. Just as Facebook is programmed—literally—to keep you on the site for as long as possible, so was Instagram after the 2012 acquisition. Easier sign-in meant no more “ugh, this is taking forever” frustration with loading screens. Tagging meant more alerts from your friends[5]. Reminders meant more urges to check your notifications.

Before Facebook, Instagram was in the photo-sharing business. After 2012, it entered the attention business. And while Instagram and Facebook monetized that attention a ton through promotions and ads, they inadvertently gave way to a new type of digital economy, one formed by Instagram consumers themselves. This is how the influencer was born[6].

Facebook and IG monetized engagement, but it wasn’t long before users broke in on the action. One of the most important developments in Instagram history came in 2013, when the Federal Trade Commission said people could post sponsored content on Instagram as long as they clearly signified it as such. All it took was #ad and you were in business[7].

It’s hard to quantify the economics of being an influencer, but there are some industry standards, if that phrasing isn’t too WTF-y. Generally, an Instagram influencer makes about 1 percent of their following, in dollars, per post. So if an influencer has 500,000 followers and they post an ad for a product they’re endorsing, that company should pay them about $5,000 for the ad.

Now, 500,000 followers is a lot, even for an influencer. That’s why there are generally defined tiers of influencers. A “micro-influencer”—someone with fewer than 100,000 followers—are sort of the small-business owners of social media monetization. They’ll usually make about $500 per post after expenses (of which there are many[8]), and they can’t just churn these posts out because they’re too expensive to produce, and besides, as a micro-influencer, they probably don’t have enough sponsorships to support that much content. Time is an issue, too. While the typical micro-influencer is on Instagram about 4 hours per day[9], they also have to go to branded events, take meetings, organize photo shoots, and so on. Being an influencer is definitely a “2010s” job, but it’s a grind.

That said, the ideal version of the influencer life seems great in a materialistic sense. As a general rule of thumb, most influencers will earn their follower total per year in dollars (remembering our earlier math problem, this comes out to about 100 sponsored posts each year, or a little less than two per week—not as many as you might expect). On top of that, uber-successful influencers score tons of free stuff, especially if they’ve found an influencer niche like travel, food, baby products, or pets.

The influencer market is growing, too. In 2018, marketers spent over $2 billion working with influencers. Some projections say that number could be as much as $10 billion in 2020. Middle-class influencers (100,000-200,000 followers) make six figures. High-class influencers are millionaires supported by internal marketing teams, legal squads, accountants, web developers, editors, and more. Influencers have a full-time staff, and they themselves are the company. It’s an alluring image to chase.

But as much as desire can be a good thing—we should hope for things, and we should strive for betterment (that’s different than “more,”)—the influencer model is where Instagram begins to warp its mission statement about feel-good photo sharing. The app has always been aspirational, but while many take that to mean aspiring to be like the people you follow, Instagram instills the subconscious desire to chase the version of yourself you share on Instagram. It’s nice to feel good when you share things, but people don’t always feel good in day-to-day life, and so sharing a version of yourself that does feel good all the time creates a deficit that becomes very, very psychologically confusing. Who are you supposed to be?

The answer people default toward seems to be: I’m supposed to be the version of myself I see the most. That’s how influencers work; they cultivate preference through familiarity. The key to being a great influencer is not to make yourself in relationship to the product look as magnificent as possible, it’s to make your relationship to the product feel attainable. You’re not looking to create an explicit want in your followers; you’re creating an implicit need by casting the illusion that you and your followers are the same. When we think we should have something, we feel entitled to it, and when we feel entitled to something, we form expectations in our head that—especially in terms of social media—often disappoint us. The monetization of Instagram has affixed the app with a culture of unmet expectations, and our response to unmet expectations is often to just try harder to meet them. That means more time on the app, and that means more money for Instagram and Facebook at the highest level. It pays for them to create an unhealthy environment.

Of course, this is a cynical view. Instagram’s economy shouldn’t be bad on its face. Desires are good. Surrounding yourself with people you want to be like is good. Hope is good. The problem is the deficit between what the app says is aspirational and what the app says is possible. Instagram says everything you see is possible, and that’s objectively false. But that deficit in perception might not be totally Instagram’s fault. Another part of the problem might be how the real world is starting to look more and more like Instagram.

This is perhaps the most unexpected consequence of Instagram yet: The Instagram aesthetic has invaded everyday life. Though filters fell out of fashion, IG still established the standards for what made a good photograph in the 2010s, and when real-world businesses started understanding that people would do anything for the chance to take these sorts of photographs, they started adapting their presentation and design to suit Instagram specifically.

Food culture is the best example. Over the past decade, restaurant concepts have faded and risen based on their Instagram-ability. After all, using Instagram as a self-advertisement means people want to be seen at certain types of places—locales that can be considered trendy, cute, fun, energetic, serene, or otherwise (here’s that word again!) aspirational. Tiki bars have surged with Instagram—the décor is fun, the drinks are outlandish and colorful, there’s a vibe. Same goes with boutique bakeries, gourmet ice cream parlors, chique-hipster coffee shops, and fusion restaurants that put unusual combinations on the menu (and present them as extreme).

Adjacently, among places ill-suited to people standing on chairs to take pictures of their plates[10], like barbecue joints and dive bars, there’s been an urge to find other ways to sell yourself as a social media-worthy destination, usually through some sort of gimmick like an attractive mural outside or gargantuan, eye-catching menu items with crass, slang-ridden names[11].

And that’s where you see the trickle-down effect, if you will, of the Instagram aesthetic. The prevalence of social media photography hasn’t just affected restaurant concepts, it’s affected menu strategies and the food itself. Tasting menus are vogue now, and while some of that’s the rise of foodie culture, another contributor is the legitimate business model of giving people more opportunities to take pictures during their meal.

For restaurants that don’t care for classical dining norms, leveraging Instagram is seen as a huge advantage. It’s free advertising. That’s why you see milkshakes with fucking muffins on top[12]. That’s why you see mac and cheese pizza. That’s why you see donuts baked and decorated to look like a galaxy or whatever. Savvy restauranteurs know for half their customers it’s not about eating the food, it’s about being seen with the food. So to hell with flavor, throw some glitter on that thing and call it an “acid trip cookie.[13]”

What strong Instagram accounts all understand, be they a restaurant or a dog or one of those pseudo-Christian “believe in yourself” boot-wearing fashionistas, is Instagram is about feelings. The pancake house that serves up a rainbow-colored stack knows you can’t taste the picture but you can feel a craving. Whoever owns Percy the Wakeboarding Hamster[14] knows you can’t feel his fur but you can compare him to your daughter’s guinea pig. The influencer with the aspirational quote knows she’d never be friends with you, but she can make you think you would be. Instagram in the attention economy is about instilling a desire in people, but taken one step further, it’s about instilling a desire people think can be satisfied by coming back over and over. Remember how Instagram creates preference through familiarity? That’s how restaurants attract customers who stand on their chairs and take photos. That’s how pet owners sell free-trade dog food. That’s how influencers trick you into thinking you have a relationship with them.

And as much as we think we’re aware of this self-deception, Instagram is so good at keeping us on the hook thanks to its reminders, nudges, notifications, shortcuts, tags, links, and overall beauty that at this point it doesn’t matter whether we know we’re being tricked. We’re too far gone. It’ll take a generation that’s more accustomed to the internet to solve all the problems people have with it[15].

As is exists now, Instagram contains a troubling irony: We curate its manicured, carefully contained aesthetic ourselves. The accounts we follow form a collage that reflects the people we want to be—the versions of ourselves who go out all the time; eat at fun restaurants; own beautiful, funny pets; travel several times a year; wear seasonal outfits on days we’re not seeing anyone; look great first thing in the morning; exercise without sweating; and string golden lights along our tastefully decorated back porches. All these follows become reflected in our own posts, our grids becoming representations of everything we want to be. Even when our content isn’t sponsored, it’s an advertisement: This is who I want to be. Do you like them?

In 2010, we were near the end of a world with a popular culture, a collection of things we all agreed were the linchpins of societal taste, values, and trends. We watched a small group of the same TV shows, went to the same handful of movies, flocked toward the same Top 40 hits, and followed the same news sources (partisanship accounted for, of course).

Instagram represents our move from popular culture to personal culture. Today, culture is you. It’s your “Recommended for you” list on Netflix. It’s your Spotify Discover Weekly. It’s your Letterboxd account. It’s your news feed. The 2010s have brought individuals unprecedented access to the things they care about, but it’s also created boundaries between individual cultures we don’t know how to navigate and break yet. The best we know how to do that is to share our personal culture on Instagram. The cruel joke of it is, however, that we’re not really sharing it with anyone. It’s just another ad.

[1] Systrom and Krieger hadn’t meant to make a photo-sharing app at all. Their first attempt at what would eventually become IG was called Burbn (yikes), a check-in app similar to Foursquare which shared your location with friends. In 2010, check-in services were a crowded market in the app world, so after some close friends said the best part of Burbn was its photo feature, Systrom and Krieger shifted their focus to an app that centered on that function. Photos were a competitive niche in the app world, too, but no one was making it as easy as IG would make it, and that’s how Systrom and Krieger made Instagram stand apart in the early going.

[2] Before Android users become all hot and bothered, here’s a number for you: When Instagram became available on Android (about a year after launch on iOS), it saw a million downloads in its first 24 hours. Insane.

[3] These days, it’s more a sign of amateur photography than amateur photography, if that makes sense.

[4] Almost made this collection. Almost.

[5] And more subsequent “What is so-and-so saying about me?” thoughts in your head.

[6] Everyone has their own concept of what an influencer is, which probably speaks to the intangible nature of the “job,” but for the sake of being on the same page, we’re talking about influencers as people who make money posting sponsored content on Instagram. They post about products and they’re paid for it.

[7] Perhaps that sentence sounds quippy. It’s not meant to be. That was the FTC rule: Influencers and marketers just had to label their posts with “#ad” to signify it was sponsored content and they could pretty much do whatever they wanted. Before this rule, Instagram was the wild west, with many accounts walking a strange, invisible line between commercialization and authenticity. Maybe that’s where we are anyway.

[8] Contrary to popular perception, influencers don’t just snap a picture of themselves holding up a can of hair spray and rake in the cash. Those sponsored posts emerge from an intensive process of production, curation, and editing that runs an average monthly bill of about $3,000 on the low end of the spectrum. One sponsored post on Instagram for a micro-influencer comes from a collage of about 400 professional photographs (photographers are usually the biggest expense) and is edited by the influencer themselves (too expensive to outsource, but big-time influencers do it anyway because they can afford it). From start to finish, it takes 2-3 days to make one professional IG post.

[9] That’s just one app, mind you. Imagine the total time on their phones.

[10] Lord, take me now.

[11] I’ll admit, it’s becoming difficult at this point not to editorialize too much.

[12] I know, I’m starting to drop some pretenses.

[13] I made this shit up, but it sounds believable, and that’s worrying.

[14] Pet accounts on Instagram are insanely lucrative. An account with a million followers can earn as much as $10,000 per post for an owner who lucked into an especially attractive or talented (hopefully both) animal.

[15] It shouldn’t be surprising to hear the best Instagram users are those in Gen Z—people born after 1998 or so. Gen Z doesn’t know a world without the internet, which means they’re not only better at navigating an internet-centered world, they’re more sensitive to the positive and negative ways the internet affects them. Data might say Gen Z uses Instagram more than any other generation, and it might show they’re lonelier and more isolated for it, but data also shows they’re more aware of Instagram’s toxicity than anyone else. This sensitivity means in the future, they’ll be able to refine social media platforms, stripping away their downsides and preserving what makes them such valuable technical tools in the first place. Instagram might be ugly now, but in the hands of Gen Z, it has a promising future.