So, you’re swiping through Tinder, Hinge, Bumble, whatever, looking for someone who shares your love of craft beer, good vibes, and maybe the moral ambiguity of late-stage capitalism. And then it hits: “There are no more people.” That’s it. You’ve exhausted the pool. The algorithm has decided you’ve seen enough. No more swiping, no more potential matches. Just you, alone, staring into the abyss of a screen that reflects your deepest fear: maybe love really isn’t out there.
But don’t worry, this isn’t about you. It’s not that you’re undateable or that the Edmonton dating pool is a barren wasteland (although, you know, maybe check your preferences). No, my friends, this is about the cold, calculating mechanics of dating apps and how they’ve commodified your loneliness to feed their bottom line. Let’s dig into this, because what’s going on here isn’t just frustrating, it’s dystopian.
The Illusion of Choice
Dating apps love to sell you on the idea of abundance. “There are so many fish in the sea,” they whisper, like a toxic ex who wants you to stick around even though they’re bad for you. But here’s the thing: the sea they’re showing you isn’t endless. It’s a tiny, carefully curated aquarium, and they’re controlling what you see because why the hell would they give you the whole ocean for free?
That “no more people” notification you get after swiping through a couple hundred profiles? It’s not because there are no women in Edmonton between the ages of 28 and 35 who like long walks on the beach and hate Jordan Peterson. It’s because the app is throttling what you’re allowed to see. This is called exposure control, and it’s one of the oldest tricks in the capitalist playbook. Limit supply, manufacture scarcity, and suddenly people start paying for things they didn’t even know they needed.
Dating apps don’t work like a public library, where you can check out as many options as you want. No, they’re more like that one bougie nightclub in the city where they keep the line outside unnecessarily long to make you think the place is popping. The illusion of scarcity creates demand. They don’t want you to think, “There are plenty of people I can match with for free.” They want you to think, “Oh no, I’m running out of options, better pay for Tinder Gold.”
Capitalism and the Economics of Loneliness
Here’s where we get into the meat of it: dating apps are a business, and their business model isn’t about helping you find love. It’s about keeping you hooked. Think about it. If these apps were really designed to help you find a relationship, they’d be incentivized to make you delete them. They’d want you to match, date, and ride off into the sunset. But do you really think Bumble’s shareholders are popping champagne every time someone deletes the app because they found “The One”?
Of course not. What they want is for you to stay stuck in the loop: swiping, matching, maybe chatting a bit, but never quite getting to the finish line. And they do this by creating artificial barriers to connection. Free users get access to a limited number of swipes, matches, or profiles per day. Want more? Pay up. Premium features like “see who liked you” or “unlimited swipes” are the equivalent of microtransactions in a video game, you’re paying to bypass obstacles the app put there in the first place.
This is the freemium business model, and it’s diabolical. It’s like a waiter who trips you on your way to the bathroom and then charges you extra for a towel to clean yourself up. Except instead of spilled soup, it’s your dignity, and instead of a towel, it’s Tinder Plus.
The Dopamine Slot Machine
Let’s talk about why these apps are so addictive. Dating apps aren’t just connecting people, they’re running you through a psychological conditioning program. Every swipe is like pulling the lever on a slot machine. Maybe this time you’ll get a match! Or maybe you’ll get ghosted by someone whose bio just says, “6’2, if that matters.” Either way, you’re hooked.
This is called intermittent reinforcement, and it’s the same thing that makes gambling addictive. When you don’t know when or if you’ll get a reward, your brain gets stuck in a dopamine feedback loop. Swipe, swipe, swipe, it’s a game, and every potential match feels like a win. But here’s the kicker: dating apps ration those wins. They’re not just letting you swipe endlessly through an infinite pool of people. They’re drip-feeding profiles to keep you coming back.
And when you finally hit that wall, “no more people”, that’s when the app offers you a solution: pay us, and we’ll show you more. Pay us, and you’ll get access to “Top Picks” or “Super Likes” or whatever nonsense feature they’ve invented to make you feel special. It’s all part of the game, and the house always wins.
Algorithms Aren’t Your Friend
Here’s another dirty little secret: the algorithms these apps use? They’re not there to find your soulmate. They’re there to keep you swiping. Sure, they’ll match you with people who are vaguely within your preferences; same age range, similar distance, maybe a shared interest in dogs or D&D. But the real priority of the algorithm is engagement. It’s not trying to get you off the app; it’s trying to keep you on it.
These algorithms are also designed to nudge you toward paying. Ever notice how sometimes it feels like you’re getting matches in bursts, followed by long stretches of silence? That’s not because the app’s running out of people, it’s because the algorithm is gaming your dopamine levels. It gives you just enough success to keep you invested, then slows things down to push you toward premium features. It’s like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey, except the carrot costs $14.99 a month.
The Ethical Dumpster Fire
Now, let’s zoom out for a second and talk about the ethics of all this. Dating apps market themselves as tools for connection, intimacy, even love. They sell you this idea that they’re making the world smaller, bringing people together. But when you look at how they actually operate, it’s clear that they’re not about connection, they’re about commodification.
Think about what these apps are really doing: they’re turning human relationships into a marketplace. Swipes, matches, and messages are all just transactions in an economy of attention. And like any capitalist system, it’s rigged to benefit the platform, not the participants. The people most likely to pay, lonely, desperate, maybe even heartbroken, are the ones being exploited the most. It’s dystopian, but it’s also just another day under capitalism.
What Can We Do About It?
Okay, so what’s the solution? First, we need to recognize what these apps are doing and stop taking their BS at face value. When they say, “no more people,” don’t panic. You’re not out of options; you’re just at the end of the artificially imposed leash they’ve put you on.
Second, we need to hold these platforms accountable. Push for transparency. How do their algorithms work? Why are profiles being throttled? Where’s the data on how many users are actually active in your area? These are questions we should be asking.
The Edmonton Example: Where Did All the Matches Go?
Let’s take a real-world example: the Edmonton dating scene. Greater Edmonton has a population of about 1.4 million people. Roughly half are women, and about 15% of those are in the prime online dating demographic of 25 to 34 years old. Crunch the numbers, and that gives you approximately 110,400 women in that age range. Sounds promising, right? Surely there’s someone out there who also enjoys Spanish tapas and thinks Canada’s housing market is a scam. But then you log onto Tinder, swipe for 15 minutes, and, boom! “no more people.” What gives?
Here’s the reality: Edmonton’s dating pool isn’t the problem. The problem is that dating apps are deliberately throttling your access to it. Out of those 110,000 women, only a fraction are likely active on any given app. Maybe 30% use dating apps regularly, so, let’s say around 33,000 women. Then you factor in your filters: age preferences, distance radius, maybe even a swipe-left reflex every time you see someone holding a fish in their profile picture. Suddenly, your pool gets smaller. Exposure control, nice isn’t it?.
Finally, and this is a big ask, I know, maybe we need to start rethinking how we approach dating altogether. The commodification of human connection is a symptom of a larger problem: a society that values profit over people. If we want to fix dating apps, we’re going to have to fix the system that created them.
So there you have it. Dating apps aren’t really about helping you find love; they’re about keeping you swiping, paying, and stuck in a loop of manufactured scarcity. They’ve turned loneliness into a business model and your search for connection into a cash cow. But hey, at least now you know the game, and knowing is half the battle.
Or, you know, you could just delete the apps and join a local D&D group. Who knows? Maybe your soulmate is a chaotic neutral bard. Stranger things have happened.
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