“Tinder without Alkisti is like pizza without cheese,” said the notification I received some weeks ago on my mobile phone. Initially I found it funny, appreciating that the marketing team of the app does not take itself too seriously. But then I thought, pizza without cheese is not that bad. So, why does Tinder want me? Or rather, why does it feel like Tinder wants something from me that I cannot provide?

A swipe can change your life1

Since I started researching for this text, my News Feed on Facebook has become saturated with ads for matchmaking services, astrological compatibility tests, videos featuring advice for finding “the one”, and so on. This is a typical example of me being caught in an algorithmic loop. By now the majority of internet users accept the fact that, to some extent, algorithms impact our everyday needs, choices and desires, and that there is almost nothing we can do about it. In the case of dating apps like Tinder, many studies have been dedicated to exploring the effects of their collaborative filtering and recommendation systems (e.g. Chaney et al. 2018), in particular the algorithms designed to suggest certain profiles to users. One of the most frequently employed algorithms is the Elo rating system and its variants, that order which profiles are shown to which user on the basis of the number of swipes they get (i.e., their “desirability” within the app). A profile with a lot of Likes will be shown to people with similar levels of “desirability”, whilst a profile with a lot of Nopes will be shown to less “desirable” ones. But if someone with more Likes swipes right on your profile to confirm they’re interested in you, that will increase your score more than if someone with less likes swipes right. 

One of the main problems with this system is that, despite Tinder’s efforts to convince us otherwise, the number of swipes you get is beyond your direct control. You might live in an area with very few active Tinder profiles for example, or you might be using the app less frequently and thus appear less frequently on other people’s swipe list. The other issue with this system – which is far more problematic – is that it amplifies patterns of social exclusion for people who do not match up to hegemonic expectations of romantic success and compatibility. Already existing social biases that govern our dating lives find their way into platforms like Tinder and become even more intensified by way of recommender and collaborative filtering systems. People on Tinder tend to group profiles they are romantically attracted to by race, class, able-bodiedness, conventional beauty standards and so on (Sharabi 2022; Strubel and Petrie 2017), and generally show a preference for white men and women (Nader 2020). As Karim Nader (2020) poignantly explains, “a dating app user who exhibits certain patterns of sexual or romantic preferences will have those patterns exacerbated through a feedback loop” (p. 248). Since the currency that governs data apps is desirability, and the most desirable profiles are these of white, cis, conventionally beautiful subjects who are matched with each other, then people who do not fit into these categories are forced to look for (or look like) them anyway if they want to improve their performance within the platform.

The one that wears her heart on her sleeves

The pizza message I received was just a teaser. More and more notifications from Tinder kept arriving in the following days on my phone, less witty and sometimes even threatening (“Your account is scheduled to be deleted. Reclaim your account in 3 days to avoid deletion.”), which I read as desperate attempts to convince me to get back to using the app. Again. And the threats worked: I did get back.

I admit it, my presence on Tinder has been terribly erratic so far. To feel that I am “still in the game” or to avoid the deletion of my account (because I would hate to have to redo my profile all over again if I ever want to return), I do a few swipes until I get bored or until I fulfil a certain goal that I have imposed on myself, e.g. to find two matches that I really like, then I call it quits for days or weeks. My profile might be conventionally “desirable” – in the sense that I am white, cis and able-bodied – but what I lack is commitment. Tinder’s effectiveness depends on how much you use the app: the algorithm monitors your preferences based on who you swipe right on and presents you with similar profiles. The more you swipe, the more chances you get to find someone you actually like (and, perhaps more importantly, is likely to swipe right on you in return). Investment is key: Tinder wants you to believe that the only way to find someone you are compatible with is by spending a considerable amount of your time and energy in strengthening your profile and swiping endlessly. So much so that there are companies that offer to do exactly that for you: you can outsource the labor needed to have an effective online dating profile.

Tinder itself puts it very clearly: “Allow us to blow your minds. The most important factor that can help our members improve their match potential on Tinder is… using the app.” In fact, this very insistence on commitment to using the app is often misconceived for a commitment to pursuing an actual relationship (Sharabi 2020). I have personally experienced a weird feeling of self-doubt: how can I invest in a real relationship if I cannot even invest in the app that is supposed to bring it to me? I know this is wrong if I rationalize it, but considering that Tinder and similar apps are the places where the majority of my friends organise their dating lives nowadays, I cannot help but feel that if I fail at it, then I fail at looking for love.

It was love at first swipe

To further expand on the title of this text, online dating leaves offline impressions, so many in fact that the supposed binary of online and offline realms becomes redundant. I have mentioned some ways in which this becomes evident, namely through the replication and exacerbation of already existing prejudices and through the common belief that commitment to Tinder equals commitment to love, but there are other ways as well, slightly subtler but equally pertinent. The reliance on algorithms by itself, for example, and believing that they can introduce you to truly compatible partners, might affect the success of your in-person date with your match.

One thing that Tinder and dating apps help us with is to predetermine and condition our intentions (or so it seems). The moment you enter the app and talk to someone, they can generally assume that you are looking for hook-ups or romance, and not to just casually meet people and expand your circle of friends. In dating life pre-Tinder, there were no external factors to predetermine intentions: if someone invited you out, unless they were explicit about inviting you on a date, you had no way to know in what way they were interested in you. How does the very fact that this initial ambiguity is lost in Tinder affect offline dating processes? I would argue that, because intentions are predetermined online, the need for clarifying in advance what one is looking for has increased. But, at the same time, we are confused as to how to fulfil and respond to this need: in one telling Reddit thread I came across, a user asked “How to determine intentions/dating goals meeting in person, not on apps, without sounding too straightforward or rude?”. 

Happy New Single

Happy New Single. #SingleNotSorry. Single does what Single wants. Through its advertising slogans, Tinder insists on promoting the app as an emancipatory space for single people who are looking for play. Indeed, for some people, online dating platforms like Tinder carry the potential for creative and affirmative sexual play and for de-dramatizing romance. “Adulting can wait,” reads another slogan. When in the rest of our lives we are forced to present ourselves as “mature” as possible to satisfy the demands of capitalist productivity, Tinder presents the site of intimacy as its counter: completely “immature.” But neither site should be the opposite of each other. Dating can be fun and playful, and we often tend to forget these aspects, but this does not mean that it can (or should) stand in contrast to the duties and responsibilities that we are asked to fulfil in other areas of our lives. 

In the end, we are more used to talking about how online dating affects offline experiences and not vice versa. But what if a life can change your swipe? We should instead call for more sophistication in both what we ask from dating apps and what they ask from us.

1 The subheadings for each section of this text are phrases that Tinder has used on its marketing campaigns.

Chaney, A. et al. (2018). How algorithmic confounding in recommendation systems increases homogeneity and decreases utility. RecSys ’18, October 2–7. https://doi.org/10.1145/3240323.3240370

Nader, K. (2020). Dating through the filters. Social Philosophy & Policy 37(2), pp. 237–248. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0265052521000133

Sharabi, L. (2020). Why settle when there are plenty of fish in the sea? Rusbult’s investment model applied to online dating. New Media & Society 23(10), pp. 1–21. https://doi.org/10.1177/14614448209376

Sharabi, L. (2022). Finding Love on a First Data: Matching Algorithms in Online Dating. Harvard Data Science Review 4(1). https://doi.org/10.1162/99608f92.1b5c3b7b

Strubel, J. and T.A. Petrie (2017). Love me Tinder: Body image and psychosocial functioning among men and women. Body Image 21, pp. 34–38. 

https://doi: 10.1016/j.bodyim.2017.02.006

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