Plenty of fish in the world’s murkiest dating pool
Why dating can never be a numbers game
By ABHINAYA KASAGANI — akasagani@ucdavis.edu
While it might be true that there are plenty of fish in the sea, the waters have never been filthier. I have no qualms against communal pools, but nothing makes me more grateful to be on dry land than watching my friends dip their toes into the murkiest of dating pools.
Our world as we know it — which can best be described as an “attention economy” — treats the act of keeping multiple people on standby until they become of service to us as both dystopian and utterly common. The introduction of “rosters” — in the context of dating, a list of people you are seeing simultaneously — becomes a tacit system through which compatibility is assessed, and time and mental capacity are strategically allotted. Since there is no way to mathematically quantify how one can evenly distribute attention among their "contenders," the very conception of a “roster” forces something as unconditional as romance to operate under conditions.
The term “attention economy” first appeared in 1971 when psychologist and economist Herbert A. Simon noted that “a wealth of information [created] a poverty of attention.” While the roster outwardly thrives within this arrangement of courtship — one without boundaries or rules — dating apps require consistent time and attention, rewarding users for their sustained engagement. The act of choosing a potential love interest becomes managerial; what was initially meant to be enjoyable begins to feel tedious, almost like a desk job. Each contender is expected to rack up points, check boxes and be on their best behavior.
This mode of dating becomes less about seeking intimacy than about optimizing attention — one’s interest in another is predicated upon their ability to perform, which is hardly the best barometer for honesty. Though the roster system might initially feel efficient, it is inherently capitalist. It relies on a quantitative assessment of one’s contenders, using measurable value to define one’s interest in the proverbial return on investment one could gain from each candidate. The downside, however, is that it remains impossible for one to be emotionally invested while spreading their affection so thin.
Ironically, the roster confuses abundance with loneliness. One is quick to conflate talking to several people with truly knowing them, preventing any understanding of depth within these engagements. Loneliness and bad dates are often byproducts not only of the digital age, but also of post-pandemic courtship. Studies suggest that the pandemic worsened our capacity for solitude, leaving the average young person largely inequipped to confront these feelings of isolation. The temporary relief that one receives from being wanted on the Internet is quickly counteracted by their discomfort with true vulnerability. Rosters, in this way, offer the illusion of control and intimacy without the risk involved with such feelings.
Considering the ways in which the digital age has resulted in the rapid proliferation of virtual and artificial intelligence (AI) assistants and chatbots that attempt to mimic human behaviors and simulate sincere relationships with its users, one is compelled to question the ways we have shirked our humanity. For instance, Spike Jonze’s film “Her” (2013) follows a man who falls in love with an operating system following the dissolution of his marriage. What was once a satirical interpretation of the evolution of relationships, intimacy and loneliness in the digital age now rings true.
Technology and Gaming Executive, Cathy Hackl, proposes a Tech Intimacy Scale in a Forbes article.
“[The Tech Intimacy Scale] evaluates whether digital tools are deepening intimacy, trust and emotional presence or eroding the very relationships they are meant to support. This is more than a diagnostic tool [it is] a cultural lens, a call to action,” Hackl said.
Another detriment to maintaining a roster is the extent to which it masquerades as empowerment. What is framed as a reclamation of power — or a way to right the wrongs of years of misogyny — instead manages to disempower all alike. The desire to appear untouched by rejection makes the inherent detachment that comes with a roster all the sweeter. After all, in theory, if you aren’t emotionally invested you risk losing nothing.
Alexis Lee, writer for “The Phillipian,” student newspaper at Phillips Academy in Massachusetts, noted that: “this excessive glorification of nonchalance has crafted an unenthusiastic and ingenuine generation that finds it awkward to reveal one’s thoughts and live true to oneself.”
While the deception within dating initially justified these measures of caution, one risks perpetuating this cycle of dishonesty through revenge. This reclamation of power often involves stooping to another’s level — Ms. Detached, meet Ms. More Detached. You both lose, in case you were wondering; one ends up hurt by the neglect of the other, who jeopardizes their chances of a true connection by failing to put in any real effort.
This is not a denunciation of casual dating itself, but of our generational inability to make the distinction between casual relationships and the gamification of intimacy. One remains a way to pass your time, while the other offers a way to waste it. Casual relationships are still mutual agreements approached with care, respect and deliberation. Situationships, however, emerge from one’s reluctance to be vulnerable, leading to undefined dynamics wherein clarity is evaded. The former allows for the furthering of intimacy, while the latter forecloses it.
My vehement distaste for rosters isn’t a product of scorn, nor is it one of judgement. The maintenance of a roster is almost laughably dystopian when one realizes that they are ranking, replacing and rejecting real people with real feelings under the excuse of “no prior discussion of allegiance.” With relationships themselves becoming rapidly gamified, we are left to juggle options like a court jester and then laugh at the precarity of it all.
Written by: Abhinaya Kasagani— akasagani@ucdavis.edu
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