The 90s: When Technology Served Us, Not the Other Way Around

The 90s weren't perfect, but they got something crucial right: technology was a tool, not a lifestyle.

I've been wrestling with this thought for weeks now - that we, as a society, peaked somewhere in the late 90s. Not in some rose-tinted "everything was better back then" way, but in a very specific, balanced sense that we've been gradually losing ever since.

Music Still Had Soul

Digital technology existed, but it was still an addition to the creative process rather than a replacement for it. Computers made things louder, cleaner, faster - they enhanced rather than substituted. You still needed a band, a scene, or at least someone who could actually play an instrument. There was something tangible behind the music. It felt human, rough around the edges in a way that made it authentic rather than flawed.

The Web Was a Tool, Not a Trap

The internet back then was genuinely exciting. It was a place you visited to find news, information, or stumble upon weird personal websites and forums dedicated to the most niche topics imaginable. You'd go online, get what you needed, maybe fall down an interesting rabbit hole, then you'd make a cup of tea and go about your day. It wasn't your whole life - it was a useful addition to it.

The satisfaction of finding something after some digging was genuinely brilliant. There was joy in the hunt, in the discovery. You couldn't just have everything instantly served to you by an algorithm.

Technology Was Simple and Honest

Most people had a few technological items: a CD player, maybe a games console, a phone that just worked for calling and texting. You bought it, you owned it, and everyone accepted it would eventually die. No subscriptions. No constant updates. No "ecosystem" nonsense. Just a thing that did something useful for you right now.

Photos were just photos. Film, printed and developed, either carefully organized or stuffed in a biscuit tin. You took one because it mattered. You didn't stand there firing off fifty versions of your own face, applying filters, and posting them immediately. You waited to see them. Sometimes they were rubbish. Sometimes they were magic. That was the deal.

The Beauty of Waiting

Everything was slower, but not in a lazy or complacent way. Just slower. You waited for things - albums, games, software releases - and nobody lost their mind about it. Waiting was normal. Delayed gratification wasn't a concept that needed explaining or a book written about it. It was just how life worked.

People worked hard, but it usually meant something tangible. You could point at something and say "I did that." Not just emails and meetings and vibes, but actual, physical results.

Authenticity Was Harder to Fake

If someone was into something, you knew. You couldn't really fake passion because it took too much effort. You had to show up and own it. There was a weight to things because they came out slowly. Albums. Games. Software. That slowness gave them meaning. You lived with them for a while instead of replacing them next week.

Small and medium local businesses actually mattered. They weren't a lifestyle brand - they were just work. They made jobs and communities. Places you knew. Money staying roughly where it was earned.

Privacy Was the Default

And perhaps most importantly: people didn't really know that much about you. And you didn't know that much about them either. And that was fine. You could disappear for a bit. You could change. You could be half-formed without documenting and faking it for public consumption.

I'm not saying the 90s were perfect. Plenty of stuff was grim. But the balance was right. We used technology without letting it own us. Then somewhere along the line, that flipped.

The late 90s represent a sweet spot - a time when technology enhanced our lives without consuming them, when digital tools served human needs rather than creating new ones, and when the pace of life allowed for depth rather than just breadth.

Maybe that's why this thought won't leave me alone. It's not about nostalgia for a simpler time - it's about recognizing a balance we've lost and wondering if we can find our way back to it.