In prehistory the production of goods was done by hand and the potential purchaser had an item they could examine and then buy. The item was a chipped rock and the purchase was made with promise, threat, or exchange of goods. The chipped rock was made by one person, likely, and then marketed by word of mouth. The consumer needed a chipped rock and negotiated for that item only. That Neolithic model of trade persisted for millions of years, and still persists where goods are tangible and physical. A factory, likely overseas, makes a widget and that device is shipped to its market, examined and then bought. The consumer brings nothing to this interaction but the desire to buy, and walks away with nothing but the item.
The internet has changed this interaction considerably. It is an entirely different kind of good. It more resembles a literature anthology or Microsoft office’s new docx and xlsx format. Like an MKV video file, it is not an item in itself. It is instead a container for other recognizable goods. The literature anthology, of which we may think of the Christian bible as an early adopter of this format, is a collection of stories or poems, the content provided by others but the container produced by the same factory that made the widget. Therefore, in this early instance, the seller offers the work of another for sale confined within their own construction of its frame. The container that the new office format consists of, which can be observed by changing the extension to .zip, merely re-boxes the same xml and txt files, but adds nothing to the content. The content must be provided by others.
The Neolithic equivalent is an early entrepreneur offering a hut to squat in while you chip away at rocks you brought yourself. You are out of the rain and have company, but you might pause to wonder why you didn’t just chip your rocks at home. The huts we presently squat in on the internet, are various and multiformed, but offer you the same bargain. On the internet, you are the content provider, while YouTube, Snapchat, Facebook, BlogSpot, Twitter, Wikipedia, and the like provide only a container into which they encourage you to pour free content. This has exhilarating possibilities, for the world of business at least. We are in our hut with amazing rock smashers, although they are difficult to see amongst the vast numbers of mediocre to terrible rock smashers who have enthusiasm yet produce no useful product.
For the business of the internet to work, that mediocrity is not an economic barrier. Web 2 encourages others to comment on the terrible spear points coming from the incompetent, and thus gives even more content to those who wish to sell advertising. But unlike the ads in the backs of novels, or scrolling across a television while you wait in a shop, or before your movie in the theatre, you do not have to provide the show, stock the shop, or write the novel. This business model is a stroke of genius. The Neolithic cave dweller could have never imagined such a proposal would fly. If he approached his fellows and offered them a hut in which to make their own spear points that he would then make charge them a fee for the privilege of using, they likely would have turned the spear points to him.
Likewise, the early compilers of what came to be the Christian bible never thought they were enriching future generations of salespeople who, sensing a wide selling text, would capitalize on it. They wrote down the stories they’d learned in the Babylon Captivity and thought no more of their plagiarized origin. The compilers of a modern anthology (remember your English anthology from high school or university English) know exactly what they are doing and so do their content providers. The authors are paid for their contribution and that cost is passed on to the consumer, as well as a fee so those who made the container can make a profit.
Some newer anthology makers have realized something about the internet model, and they offer their services, which are limited to cutting and pasting, to put together collections made up of different author’s work. These are then delivered on amazon as an ebook or perhaps even a print anthology. Like the internet, these crafty vanity presses give nothing to the author but the satisfaction of having written their work for free, or a transient idea that they are a real author, at least until they learn differently. The entrepreneurs fleecing their content providers are not to be blamed for their mercenary attitude, however. They learned it from the internet itself.
On the broad net, or web, and the spider-web description is useful, the public at large upload their photos and videos, comment on blogs and news stories, are encouraged to report errors or typos so the newspapers do not have to employ editors, and in other ways provide the content for those who do not wish to pay for it. The thin threads which are the container of the internet, the infrastructure that confines and supports these more creative gifts to the public at large, are built by the new entrepreneur. They have realized that such is human hubris, and collegiality, and maliciousness, and silliness, that they need sell nothing even remotely tangible.
They ask us to bring our own chunks of flint, chip them into spear points, and then to observe, comment upon and edit that material. They insert cunning ads which can be very lucrative, and count their money, happier than Scrooge on the twelve days of Christmas and Grinch when he’s hauling away the presents.
We are complicit in this. We upload the videos, watch the videos of others and comment, and happily bring our rock to the chipping party at the spear-point maker’s house where he serves water as though it were wine and charges to use the bathroom. Before long, I am sure, we’ll figure out we’ve been had, and we’ll make our own hut, have our own parties, and refuse to give our millions to support those who do nothing but sell us a nail to hang our own painting.
