From living rooms to isolated screens: How algorithmic entertainment is making us lonelier

In the age of algorithm-driven entertainment, pop culture tastes have become astonishingly niche. People now vibe to songs originally composed for the electoral campaigns of fallen dictators, or watch reels made by children in remote villages. 

Entertainment is no longer confined to television; while its reach has expanded immensely, it has also fractured collective consumption into personalised micro-worlds.

Mahmuda Akter Lipi, a 38-year-old schoolteacher, reminisces about the days when she used to watch cable television with her family.

"I remember watching shows like Alif Laila, Robin Hood, and Bangladeshi dramas such as Aj Robibar on BTV with my parents and siblings. Back then, we were among the few in our area who owned a television, so neighbours would sometimes come over to watch together," said Lipi.

"There was a sense of communal engagement with TV," she added.

Television was never just an entertainment device — it was a way to socialise. It created a shared space where families gathered after long, exhausting days. It gave people something to talk about, something everyone had in common. 

In Bangladesh, especially, television functioned as a communal hearth: a single screen around which households, neighbours, and even entire lanes gathered. Television was so central to daily life that it often transcended physical space itself. 

As the character Joey in 'Friends' famously once said, "You don't own a TV? Where's all your furniture pointed at?"

But as technology evolved, so did our relationship with entertainment. People no longer need to share a screen, and the once-lively living room has grown quiet. Everyone now has their own device, their own headphones, their own algorithm. 

The result is a new era of individualised entertainment, where proximity no longer guarantees connection, and people grow more distant every day.

"Watching something on a streaming service — or scrolling through reels — feels lonelier than watching cable," said Sahib, a 22-year-old university student. "When I watched something on cable, I used to feel like there were thousands of other people watching it with me."

Sahib is not alone. Many feel that the communal experience of entertainment has all but vanished. There was a time when social identity formed around shared narratives — everyone watched the same shows, and the next day's conversations in offices, tea stalls, and classrooms revolved around them. 

Today, that collective cultural memory has fractured.

The rise of streaming and the slow demise of cable TV

When Netflix dropped all 13 episodes of the first season of House of Cards on a single day in 2013, it unlocked a new dimension of audience psychology. The release is widely credited with popularising what we now call "binge-watching". 

What began as an online DVD rental service went on to fundamentally reshape visual media. 

Generational differences in media consumption are not new; they have existed since at least the 1960s. But today's algorithm-driven environment does something fundamentally different: it narrows attention.

Netflix tapped into an overlooked impulse: audiences will consume as much content as you allow them to.

Before Netflix, the psychology of watching television was entirely different. Programmes aired on fixed schedules, and if a show mattered to you, you rearranged your life to catch it. The TV did not fit into your routine — you adjusted your routine around it. 

Episodes aired once a week, and the long wait between instalments created anticipation that was its own form of pleasure.

Streaming uninterrupted episodes tapped into the human desire for completion. The absence of weekly gaps shifted anticipation into consumption. Unlike cable television, which dictated when to watch, streaming platforms offered the luxury of watching anything, anytime.

Soon, cable TV's linear scheduling began to feel outdated. Streaming aligned more neatly with modern habits, and as younger audiences abandoned cable, advertisers followed. In short, Netflix now holds near-monolithic influence over the market — a substitute for Hollywood itself.

Yet the abundance of content has also produced a strange paradox. There are thousands of shows available, and still nothing to watch. Only content that delivers the highest dopamine hit survives, while everything else is endlessly scrolled past. Or people simply rewatch the same shows, again and again.

Each of us is in our own separate worlds

The internet is a seemingly infinite repository of information, catering to everything from spiritual inquiry to mindless pleasure. Within this vast ecosystem, each of us now inhabits our own personalised pod, curated entirely by algorithms.

We live inside media bubbles tailored to our tastes, beliefs, and behaviours. A child watches Cocomelon, a grandfather watches the news, a teenager scrolls through TikTok reels, while parents follow locally produced dramas. Each algorithmic shift widens the generational gap, even within the same household.

"Even though we're all on the same social apps, it feels like my parents and I live in completely different worlds," shared Jerin, a 19-year-old college student. 

"The things I watch don't make sense to them, and the things they enjoy barely register with me. The gap between us feels wider every day, and honestly, it has a lot to do with how social media keeps feeding each of us our own separate universe."

Generational differences in media consumption are not new; they have existed since at least the 1960s. But today's algorithm-driven environment does something fundamentally different: it narrows attention. 

Instead of exposing people to a broad mix of cultural signals, algorithms continuously refine and reinforce a single niche, pushing users deeper into one type of content until it becomes the entirety of their media universe.

This shift has particular consequences in countries like Bangladesh, where watching television was once a family ritual and a neighbourhood event. Isolated screens have quietly eroded that social fabric. We may still sit in the same room, but we no longer inhabit the same space.

Compounding this is the creator economy of social media, which is designed to simulate intimacy. Audiences are encouraged to feel as though they share a genuine relationship with creators. 

In reality, these relationships are one-sided and transactional — parasocial by design. The illusion of closeness is carefully engineered to maximise engagement.

While this can feel comforting, it ultimately leaves a residue of emptiness. We feel connected to content, but slowly drift away from real human relationships. Cultural memory fragments. Shared references disappear. 

We are entertained constantly, yet increasingly isolated.