We Used To Think The Internet Should Be Free
There was a time when the internet felt like a promise.
Not a product, not a funnel, not a marketplace disguised as a conversation, but a genuine phenomenon. A place where information wanted to be free, where curiosity was rewarded, where you could follow a trail of links for hours without being shaken down for your email address, your credit card, or your soul.
People really did believe two things back in the early 2000s. First, that the internet would remain free, or at least mostly free. Second, that it might actually save us from ourselves. That sunlight would disinfect power. That knowledge would flatten hierarchies. That access would equal fairness.
Fast-forward twenty or thirty years and it’s hard not to laugh, if only to stop yourself from swearing.
The modern internet is not free. It’s toll-based. You can barely read a paragraph of news without slamming into a paywall. Articles are truncated just enough to annoy you into subscribing. Ads stalk you across platforms like needy ghosts. Blogs that once existed to share ideas now exist to “convert.” Every scroll is a pitch. Every pause is an opportunity to sell you something you didn’t know you needed until five seconds ago.
Even search, once the great neutral librarian, has become a shopping mall with opinions.
And now we’ve arrived at the era of AI, which was initially sold to us with the same wide-eyed optimism as the early web. This will democratize everything. This will lower barriers. This will be free, or close enough to feel that way. This will empower individuals.
Except it isn’t free. Not remotely. And it turns out that running massive data centers, training gigantic models, and powering always-on intelligence costs an extraordinary amount of money. Someone has to pay for it. Increasingly, that someone is you.
So now the internet is not just selling you products. It’s selling you tools to think, write, design, plan, and decide. Tools you once used your own brain for. Tools that are genuinely useful, yes, but also quietly expensive, both financially and cognitively.
We’ve gone from “information wants to be free” to “everything wants your attention, your data, and a recurring monthly payment.”
Which raises an uncomfortable question: What’s the answer?
Because “going back” isn’t an option. The old internet is not coming back any more than vinyl-only music distribution or handwritten letters as the dominant mode of communication. The infrastructure, the economics, and the incentives are all different now. Nostalgia won’t fix that.
At the same time, fully surrendering to a paywalled, ad-saturated, algorithmically manipulated attention economy feels wrong. It leaves a bad taste. It creates a world where curiosity is constantly interrupted, where learning is monetized at every turn, and where people with less money simply get less access.
That’s not a healthy system. It’s a brittle one.
I’m acutely aware of the irony here. I run a writing academy. I sell courses. I make my living in this ecosystem. I’m not pretending to stand outside it throwing stones. But I’ve also made a conscious decision to keep a lot of what I do free. My blog is free. Many of my writing courses are free. Not as bait, not as a funnel trick, but because I remember what it felt like when the internet gave more than it took.
That choice isn’t naive. It’s deliberate.
The truth is, we all have to make a living. That part hasn’t changed since the beginning of time. What has changed is the pressure to monetize absolutely everything, immediately, aggressively, and without shame. The idea that if you’re not extracting a fee from every interaction, you’re doing it wrong.
I don’t buy that.
I think the answer lies somewhere quieter and less fashionable. It lies in restraint. In choosing not to monetize every breath. In deciding that some things are worth offering freely because they build trust, culture, and long-term value rather than short-term revenue.
The internet doesn’t need more scarcity. It needs more generosity - with boundaries.
AI, in particular, forces us to confront this. It is expensive. It is powerful. It is not going away. Pretending it should be free forever is as unrealistic as pretending electricity should be free forever. But that doesn’t mean it should become a luxury good reserved for corporations and high-end users. There is a middle ground between “free utopia” and “everything is a subscription.”
The same applies to information, education, and creativity. Not everything needs to be locked behind a paywall to have value. In fact, some things gain their value precisely because they are shared. Writers know this instinctively. Stories don’t work when hoarded. Ideas don’t grow when fenced off too soon.
There is also a deeper cost we rarely talk about. When every online space becomes transactional, people stop exploring. They skim. They bounce. They distrust. The internet becomes exhausting. And exhaustion is the enemy of learning, creativity, and genuine engagement.
The answer, if there is one, is not a single platform or policy. It’s a set of individual choices repeated often enough to make a difference. Creators choosing to leave doors open. Readers choosing to support what genuinely helps them rather than what shouts the loudest. Technologists choosing to design systems that respect attention instead of strip-mining it.
And perhaps most importantly, remembering that not everything of value needs to scale infinitely.
The early internet felt human because it was small, messy, and imperfect.
Today’s internet feels oppressive because it’s optimized to death.
Maybe the future isn’t bigger platforms and smarter algorithms, but smaller spaces with clearer values.
I don’t think the internet failed us. I think we asked it to be something it was never capable of being. It was never going to save us from ourselves. That was magical thinking. But it can still be a place for learning, generosity, and exchange if enough people choose to behave that way.
Free doesn’t mean worthless. Paid doesn’t mean evil. But relentless monetization of attention leads to a poorer culture, not a richer one.
So I’ll keep offering what I can for free.
Not because it’s clever marketing, but because I believe in a version of the internet that still leaves room to breathe. And if that makes my corner of it feel a little old-fashioned, I’m fine with that.
Some things are worth keeping open.
Keep Writing.
Rob Parnell
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