Faster Horses

UPDATE, 14/11/2025:

As Co-Founder of Communify, I wrote newsletters on behalf of the team. My opinion has changed significantly (particularly in relation to AI) since writing many of them, but I do not regret my attempts to see AI as a means of supporting human creativity, even if I now believe it is just as likely to stifle or actively hinder it. Many major publisher beg to differ, however. Or maybe they just don’t think it’s important.

Place your bets, ladies and gentleman.

From industrial-era factories to the virtual megastructures of today, our 'progress' has always been fuelled by a drive for scale. The industrial revolution framed mass production and ever-expanding networks as the ultimate engines of modernity—only sacrificing a little artisanal quality and human intimacy along the way—and this same philosophy drove our digital platforms to capture millions of users, delivering a promise of connection that, in practice, just left us feeling alone in vapid, impersonal super-platforms that everyone used and nobody liked.

And the best part?

We're now being optimised out of the 'progress' machine that we helped build.

But we're also facing a paradox. The same technological force that's tearing apart communities apart in real time—via AI-generated noise and mass-produced content—is also the very mechanism that can set us free. As we are squeezed out of the machine we once helped to build, we now have a unique opportunity to reclaim what we lost. Technology allowed us scale up, and now it can help us scale down. To hone in on what really matters, and build communities that are more human than ever.

Sometimes less is more.

Arts & Crafts

Over a century ago, the Industrial Revolution taught us how to scale things up – churning out goods faster and cheaper than ever, but often at the expense of artisanal quality and human craft. In the late 19th century, the Arts and Crafts movement even pushed back against this trend, “decrying the use of machines” and attempting a return to handcrafted designs. Fast forward to today, and our digital platforms have replayed a similar story: social networks and online communities ballooned to millions or billions of users, optimizing for engagement and growth while intimacy and meaningful interaction became collateral damage. We’ve spent years chasing bigger online audiences when perhaps we could (and/or should) have pursued better communities.

The irony is that now, in an age of AI and hyper-automation, we are more efficient than ever, yet the human elements that once made digital spaces special feel increasingly squeezed out. Many users have begun to notice too: in one recent survey, 60% said social media feels like a barrage of ads that makes them “feel like a number in a giant algorithmic machine”.

In short, we built massive online platforms, but lost the living room warmth of the early days of the internet. And as technology races ahead – promising ever “smarter” algorithms and AI-driven interactions – it’s clearer than ever that what people are craving isn’t another leap in scale, but a return to authentic human connection.

The Before Times

Before the social media monolith, there were forums, bulletin boards, chat rooms, and niche web communities that flourished with intentional intimacy. These legacy platforms operated on a human scale by design, and crucially, these sites weren’t optimized for engagement in the modern sense. You’d often get chronological threads, passionate (if sometimes messy) discussions, and moderators who were usually just respected community members guiding by shared rules. The pace was slower; posts were often longer and more thoughtful; and there was a stronger sense of place and identity – each forum felt like its own little town on the web. Of course, those early communities had limitations: clunky technology, sometimes insular cultures, and no AI or advanced tools to manage time consuming management tasks.

Yet, despite (or because of) those constraints, many excelled at fostering a genuine sense of community. People formed reputations over years, recognized each other’s handles, and built trust through repeated interactions. In those “small town” digital spaces, you weren’t an anonymous face in a sea of millions; you were a known contributor within a few hundred or a few thousand peers. There’s a reason many internet veterans speak fondly of the era of independent forums and blogs – it felt intentional. Every group, no matter how quirky or narrow its focus (be it a forum for Pro Evolution Soccer enthusiasts or a community for amateur poets), each had its own norms and flavour. These examples remind us that technology isn’t the sole ingredient for a great community; intimacy, shared purpose, and thoughtful leadership are. So as we consider building modern environments, there’s value in looking back. What did those smaller communities get right? They prioritized belonging over scale. They proved that you can have a thriving online space with 100 or 1,000 active members if those members care about each other and what brought them together. In resurrecting that spirit, we might combine the best of both worlds – the intentional culture of legacy forums with the convenience and power of today’s technology.

150 Friends

Is it possible to grow a digital community just enough to maximize vitality, but not so much that it loses its soul? This idea of “curated scale” suggests that yes – with deliberate design choices we can reap the benefits of scale (diversity of voices, network effects, resource abundance) while preserving the close-knit feel that enables trust and meaning. In fact, recent trends indicate that the future of online platforms lies in going smaller and smarter. Research by Vox Media and The Verge in 2024 found that users are abandoning the mega-platforms in favour of “tight-knit groups where trust and shared values flourish.” Their conclusion: “Smaller, purpose-driven communities are the future” and the next era of community building means “going back to the basics”, focusing on personal, human-scale interactions . The concept of curated scale draws from this insight. It means intentionally limiting or structuring growth – not for the sake of exclusivity, but to protect the quality of experience.

Anthropologist Robin Dunbar famously theorized that most people can maintain stable social relationships with at most ~150 individuals. While the exact number isn’t a hard rule, the principle is clear: communities function best within certain size bounds where people can still recognize and value each other. As one member of a long-standing online forum succinctly put it, every community has a “sweet spot” between “too small to have anything interesting going on” and “too big to moderate”.

Curated scale is about finding and maintaining that sweet spot. How can we do this in practice with modern tools? One approach is segmenting large communities into pods or sub-groups – think of how some large Discord servers create multiple channels for different topics or how Facebook Groups splinter mega-audiences into interest-based units. Another tactic is controlled growth: for example, intentionally capping membership at a certain number, or using invite-only onboarding so that expansion happens via trusted referrals (not unlike early Gmail or Clubhouse invites, but for community quality rather than hype). We can also bake in culture safeguards – strong community guidelines, onboarding that educates newcomers about norms, and mechanisms to reinforce positive contributions (like upvotes or kudos within a small circle where they truly matter). Modern tech can assist here too: imagine AI-driven analytics that alert community managers not just when growth is low, but when growth is too fast to assimilate new members properly. Or low-code platforms that let you spin out a new “chapter” of your community when the original gets unwieldy, maintaining a network-of-communities model instead of one giant forum.

The goal is a Goldilocks zone of community size and engagement.

With curated scale, success is measured in depth, not breadth: higher ratios of active members, stronger retention, more personal knowledge of each other, and richer contributions. Paradoxically, by scaling down or pacing our scaling up, we may achieve an experience that feels more fulfilling – and ultimately more sustainable. In tech terms, think of it as moving from a massive open platform (where anyone can shout) to a collection of well-tended gardens connected by pathways. Each garden can have its own character, and the gardeners ensure nothing grows too rampant. This isn’t about excluding people; it’s about serving people better by avoiding the dilution of community spirit that happens when you simply throw open the doors to everyone all at once. And encouragingly, the market is starting to reflect this philosophy. We see a rise of platforms tailored for “micro-communities” and interest-based networks, as well as companies exploring decentralized social media (like the Fediverse/Mastodon model) where smaller servers make up a larger whole. Curated scale asks us to be intentional architects of our digital spaces: use all the modern tools at our disposal, but wield them with the wisdom that bigger by itself is not better. The ultimate litmus test for any community or platform might be simple: does this space make people feel human? If the answer scales negatively with more users, then curated scale is the strategy to embrace.

The New(?) Meta

A community blog and discussion forum founded back in 1999, MetaFilter was never the size of Reddit or Facebook – and that was by design. In fact, its founder Matt Haughey deliberately introduced friction to growth: notably, a one-time $5 membership fee was instituted in 2004 to slow down signups and keep out drive-by trolls. Five dollars isn’t a huge barrier, but it was enough to ensure new members really wanted to be there. The result? According to Time magazine, that small gate kept the site “remarkably free of trolls, griefers and other anonymous jerks,” giving MetaFilter “the flavor of a small town or good university”. In other words, the community scaled gradually and intentionally, cultivating a culture where people largely behaved as good citizens. There were a few specific design decisions that made MetaFilter a thoughtful alternative to the mass-scale platforms of its era:

Membership friction. As mentioned, the $5 lifetime membership fee set a tone that this place is special. It signaled to newcomers that MetaFilter valued its community enough to ask for a token commitment. This drastically reduced spam accounts and bad actors, a stark contrast to the free-for-all growth strategy of many social networks. The money wasn’t a profit center but a community filter – and it worked.

Posting limits and quality control. MetaFilter allowed members to post to the front page, but with a rule: one post per user per day (and it had to include a worthwhile link or piece of content). This throttling meant the community wasn’t flooded with low-effort posts or repetitive content. Members took time to find “the best of the web” to share, building a reputation on the quality of their contributions. Essentially, MetaFilter chose depth over speed, encouraging thoughtful curation rather than endless scrolling updates.

Active moderation & community norms. From early on, MetaFilter invested in moderation – both from staff and the community itself. Conversations were expected to be civil and on-topic, and users widely understood the norms (helped by the fact that persistent pseudonyms built accountability). The tone was akin to that small university vibe: friendly debate, in-jokes that developed over years, and a general sense that people were listening to each other. When someone stepped out of line, moderators or veteran members would gently steer the discourse back, much like a town hall meeting where everyone wants to keep the peace.

For over two decades, these choices allowed MetaFilter to remain a corner of the internet where high-quality discussion thrived while many larger platforms descended into noise. It’s insightful to compare: at its peak, MetaFilter had on the order of tens of thousands of active users – tiny compared to Reddit’s hundreds of millions. Yet the influence and loyalty of that community far outstripped its size. To this day, MetaFilter is cited as an example of sustainable online community design, where health mattered more than raw scale. It wasn’t without challenges (even MetaFilter faced financial hurdles and the need to adapt as the web evolved), but its legacy demonstrates that a well-curated, human-scale community can endure and succeed in ways that giant algorithm-driven platforms struggle to. For community builders and tech leaders, MetaFilter’s story is a compelling case study in building it right, not just big – a reminder that you can cultivate an online space that people love, remember, and return to for years, without ever “going viral” in the traditional(?) sense.

The exciting part?

The tools we have now make this even more accessible. What once took a team and budget now takes a weekend and a clear vision. That same ethos—small, specific, intentional—is what kept MetaFilter thriving while others collapsed under their own scale.

With Great Power...

Our technologies are more powerful than ever – AI can automate content or responses, platforms can onboard millions overnight – but it’s up to us to direct those powers toward human-centric outcomes. It’s time for a fundamentally different approach that prioritizes human connection, trust, and meaning over sheer size and efficiency. We can draw inspiration from the past (the warmth of smaller forums, the passion of niche groups) and harness the tools of the present (AI, analytics) to build a future where digital environments enrich our social fabric rather than fray it.

• Redefine success. What metrics are you using to measure your digital community or team’s success? If you typically focus on growth numbers (members, clicks, time on site), try introducing a quality metric – for example, measure engagement depth or member satisfaction. How might your strategy change if meaningful interaction is the north star instead of maximum reach?

• Leverage technology to serve, not replace. Think about the tools at your disposal (AI, automation, data analytics). How can they be used to augment human connection rather than substitute for it? For instance, could an AI chatbot handle routine FAQs, freeing up a community manager’s time to host a heartfelt weekly discussion? Brainstorm one or two ways technology could take care of the “busy work” so that you and your members can focus on human-centric tasks.

• Find your sweet spot. Consider the size and structure of your community or team. Do people still know each other’s names or roles? Is there a sense of accountability and familiarity, or are folks slipping through the cracks? If it feels like things have gotten too large and impersonal, explore ways to scale down or create subgroups. This might mean capping a group size (and starting a new group when you hit the limit) or forming interest-based channels where smaller subsets can bond. What would a more intimate version of your digital space look like?

• Curate culture intentionally (and carefully). No matter the size of your platform, culture doesn’t happen by accident. Are your community guidelines, moderation practices, or team norms fostering the kind of connection you want? Identify one design decision you could make to encourage intimacy – it could be as simple as a weekly prompt that asks members to share personal stories, a mentoring/buddy system in a large organization, or requiring new members to introduce themselves with a fun fact. Use the tools and rules at hand to actively shape a warmer, more trusted environment.

• Embrace 'slow' moments. In a digital world obsessed with real-time updates and instant responses, try building in a bit of slowness. This could mean scheduling 'offline weekends' for a community (to reduce burnout or even encourage reflection), or setting a policy that big discussions stay open for several days to let more thoughtful contributions surface (instead of rewarding the fastest commenters only). How can you remind everyone (and yourself) to pause and connect, rather than broadcast for its own sake?

In the end, the pursuit of better digital spaces is much like the pursuit of any meaningful innovation: it requires imagination, courage, and a willingness to break from the crowd. We have an opportunity to create digital communities and workplace networks that feel less like crowded factories and more like a digital home away from home.

We can create places where efficiency serves humanity, and not the other way around.