Once upon a time, the internet was an untamed wilderness—a chaotic, fragmented space where local culture and creativity thrived. In this digital frontier, the idea of a “meme” as we know it today didn’t even exist. Instead, humor and shared cultural moments emerged as organic artifacts of small online communities. These early digital treasures were deeply rooted in specific places and contexts: an inside joke on a message board, a ridiculous animation shared in an email thread, or an absurd image passed along on rudimentary forums. They weren’t yet memes in the modern sense; they were the digital equivalent of folklore, created and shared by everyday users.
Back then, the internet was not a global stage but a patchwork of local interactions. Memes reflected the language, humor, and peculiarities of their creators. A French internet user might laugh at something completely incomprehensible to an American. A Turkish teenager might share a joke that would never leave their circle of MSN Messenger friends. The diversity was staggering, and the cultural silos gave rise to a unique kind of authenticity. Memes were unpolished and raw, crafted with rudimentary tools but infused with a sense of belonging.
Fast forward to the late 2000s, and the internet was no longer fragmented. The rise of platforms like YouTube, Facebook, and later Instagram began to flatten these localized ecosystems into a global stage. Social media algorithms pushed certain content to prominence, and memes—once small, intimate cultural expressions—began to take on a life of their own. The internet’s chaotic spontaneity gave way to a new kind of order, where memes could transcend borders and become globally recognized symbols of humor or commentary.
Take, for example, early viral sensations like Trollface or “All Your Base Are Belong to Us.” These memes, while originating from specific communities, quickly reached audiences worldwide. Similarly, video clips like the dancing baby animation or even early YouTube hits such as “Charlie Bit My Finger” showcased how digital culture could unite people across geographies. These marked the beginning of the global meme era, where a single joke could be shared and understood across vastly different cultures. This new landscape had its charm. It created a shared language of humor that connected people from all walks of life. But in the process, something was lost: the organic, grassroots spirit of digital folklore was overshadowed by the algorithms’ appetite for scale and virality.
The arrival of marketing into the meme ecosystem accelerated this transformation. Companies recognized the potential of memes as tools for engagement and began co-opting them to promote products. In some cases, these efforts were clever and resonated with audiences. In many others, they were clunky and painfully transparent, stripping memes of their authenticity. What was once playful and subversive became another vehicle for advertising, another cog in the machinery of consumerism.
By 2024, the concept of “inorganic memes” had reached its peak. One of the most striking examples was the “Hawk Tuah” phenomenon—a meme that seemed to appear out of nowhere, dominate social media for a brief moment, and then vanish just as quickly. At first glance, Hawk Tuah had all the elements of a classic viral hit: an absurd premise, a catchy name, and broad appeal. But closer inspection revealed a carefully orchestrated campaign, designed to exploit algorithms and maximize engagement. It was a manufactured moment, engineered for virality rather than born from genuine creativity.
This shift from organic, community-driven memes to corporate-controlled content mirrors the broader centralization of the internet itself. Decentralized platforms and user-driven creativity have given way to ecosystems dominated by a handful of tech giants. Memes, once a form of participatory culture, are increasingly shaped by the priorities of advertisers and platform algorithms. For instance, TikTok’s tightly curated trends illustrate how memes are now built into the platform's monetization strategies.
Yet, all is not lost. In the shadow of these powerful platforms, smaller communities continue to thrive, creating and sharing content that defies monetization and central control. Platforms like Reddit, particularly its niche subreddits, still harbor spaces where creativity and authenticity flourish. Decentralized networks, where users own their data and reclaim their creativity, offer a glimpse of hope. Perhaps the next wave of memes will emerge not from marketing strategies or algorithmic manipulation but from genuine human connections and the chaos of grassroots creativity.
This evolution—from digital folklore to marketing memes—is a microcosm of the internet’s own journey. It challenges us to reflect on what kind of digital culture we want to build and who gets to decide its future. However, the reality remains sobering: the most prominent memes today are shaped not by communal creativity but by the invisible hands of corporations and algorithms. Smaller, subcultural meme communities might still hold the torch of authenticity, but their influence is waning in the face of commercialized virality. In this rapidly changing landscape, the question remains: Can we rediscover the authentic, participatory spirit of the internet’s early days, or are we destined to be consumers of content shaped by invisible hands? The answer may lie not in a resurgence of folklore but in our willingness to challenge the status quo of centralized digital culture.