Kakao and the 'Enshittification' of Korea

Courtesy of Cheng Fend

Every so often the English language births a word so perfect, so painfully precise, that it becomes more than just a temporary slang expression to throw about for a few months. Instead it becomes something closer to a diagnosis. Selfie was something cute. A goofy neologism describing a modern digital self-portrait. But then it crystallized into a mirror for our age: narcissistic, democratized, performative. Woke was once a quiet term of social awareness with almost Buddhist undertones, yet it now drips with irony, weaponized to exhaustion by both sides of the political divide pushing us further from moral progress. An influencer was once someone with genuine authority; now, it’s more like a warning label for the commodification of personality itself.

Thanks to Cory Doctorow, we now have another term to add to the list: Enshittification. Gloriously vulgar, akin to Harry Frankfurt’s use of the word Bullshit in his 2005 book, it allows academics, children, and media personalities to swear without censor. Created in 2022, enshittification captures the peculiar rot afflicting our digital age. The way every service we once loved, relied upon, or even mildly tolerated has curdled into a cynical parody of itself. Doctorow didn’t just name a phenomenon, he exposed a pathology.

Twitter was once the digital town square. An open society of political commentary, social analysis, and, of course, lots and lots of K-pop fan accounts. Now, however, it’s filled with bots, memes, and "interesting" videos. Facebook used to be a cool way to stay in touch with people and get updates on your auntie’s garden, your high school friends’ married lives, and everything else in between. Now, you’re lucky to see anything from anyone you know, instead being served up deep life summaries from Anthony Bourdain, quotes about running, and lots and lots of videos.

The app itself is also now pushing people to become digital creators, giving users targets to hit with a certain amount of posts each week and then rewarding those who do with greater exposure on the platform. Zuckerburg cleverly finding a way to eke out free labour from his digital workforce (us) to gain more money from business advertisers. Instagram is the same. For every post or story from a friend, I have more and more sponsored content and advertisements throwing themselves at me. Have you noticed recently that your YouTube algorithm is often suggesting you videos with only a handful of views from really small channels? This is because those channels are not monetized and every click and view goes to the company rather than the creator.

And then this week, we had Korea’s number one app, Kakao, doing the same thing. Kakao is something everyone uses. My mother once remarked that hearing the constant chirping of Kakao messages coming in while waiting at the Heathrow airport gate made her feel like she was already in Korea. The yellow app is the WeChat or WhatsApp of the country. A way to send messages, photos, or video call anyone in the country. I personally always felt it lacked behind its counterparts because the Chinese equivalent allows people to translate absolutely anything from text to photos with the click of a button, while the memes and stickers on WhatsApp are always good fun. Kakao was just a simple messenger service. People used it because it worked. It did everything we wanted.

And then, it didn’t. There were always ads popping up on my desktop when using Kakao. They would come up in the little Windows notification tray. They would also revolve around the bottom of the app itself, from plants, to Chinese food, clothes, and everything else. It was a minor inconvenience but nothing too stressful considering.

This week’s update to the app, however, has turned that simple messenger into an Instagram-lite. Without warning, our simple profiles have been turned into a social media type feed of all our photos and videos for the world to see. We are invited to like other people’s photos and statues through the introduction of hearts and comments. Basically, like everything else before, our simple service has been gamified by those who own it to serve two goals: to keep us on the platform as long as possible and to make as much money from our digital labour by selling our attention to companies.

This is the digital attention economy. We do not always consider it but every second we spend looking at a screen is money going into the pocket of Zuckerburg, Musk, and Kakao chiefs. They do not care what we look at: cat memes, racist content, or thirst traps. All that matters is we work with our eyes and our thumbs. The more we do, the more they earn. And it is in the pursuit of these earnings that we see the enshittification of our digital lives.

In Cory Doctorow’s view, the decline isn’t an accident. It’s the business model. The process, he says, always unfolds in three predictable acts. First, the company is good to its users. It showers them with convenience, novelty, and connection. A digital Eden. Second, once the crowd is captive, it becomes good to its business customers. The algorithms are quietly twisted in favour of advertisers and sellers; the feed begins to feel more like a mall than a meeting place. Finally, having squeezed value from both groups, the company turns inward, becoming good only to itself. Users and businesses alike are left to wade through the stinking residue of paywalls, ads, data traps, and algorithmic sludge while the shareholders toast another quarter of growth.

It’s a perfect circle of corruption disguised as innovation. Facebook is there. Amazon has long been there. Duolingo went there unashamedly. And now Kakao has joined the group this week. The tragedy is that the pattern no longer belongs solely to Silicon Valley, it’s the story of modern life itself, digital or otherwise.