Swipe Culture and the Death of Effort

Dating apps promised connection, but did they train us to treat people as disposable instead?

I remember when dating required confidence. Not the kind you manufacture for a profile bio, but the kind you had to summon in real time — walking up to someone, holding a conversation, flirting, running game. Back then, even if all you wanted was a hookup, you still had to earn it. There was strategy and rhythm, but also humanity. The effort was part of the exchange.

Fast forward to today, after years of giving apps like Raya, Hinge, Tinder, Bumble, and Grindr a try it feels like a completely different game. Honestly, I had my fun. There’s a certain rush in collecting matches, like building a digital trophy case, but only a fraction of those matches ever engaged. Out of that fraction, an even smaller group kept the conversation alive. And of those? Barely any showed up for a real date. Most of it felt inconsequential, like people were just killing time — or, from my gay experience as a top, looking for a free dinner.

And let’s be real about the racial dynamics. As a Black gay cisgender man, the lack of engagement from white guys on apps is obvious. Worse are the ones who do match, only to make it instantly sexual, as if that’s the only value I bring. You can call that preference if you want, but it feels more like a pattern of exclusion dressed up as choice. When someone did make it to an actual date, ghosting or breadcrumbing wasn’t a rare disappointment — it was the expectation.

Turns out the data backs me up. Studies show 41% of dating app users admit to ghosting and over a third have breadcrumbed. That’s not just a glitch in the system, that’s the culture. Ghosting used to be considered rude; now it’s considered normal. And breadcrumbing — those little texts or likes to string someone along with no intention of following through — has become part of the script. It’s like we’ve collectively agreed to play with each other’s time and emotions because the next option is only a swipe away. Psychologists call it the paradox of choice: when you have endless options, you’re less likely to be satisfied with the one you pick. On dating apps, that plays out as indecision, low effort, and a constant cycle of “what else is out there?”

I saw it spill into real life during a conversation with a friend. He was excited about a guy he’d started seeing but asked me if he should wait for other people who might be interested. That floored me. Even in our organic connections, we’ve started treating each other like profiles — swiping in real life. We want guarantees before committing, shortcuts to intimacy, when the whole point used to be the journey of figuring it out.

For men who love men, Grindr has amplified this culture. Grindr was revolutionary in making it easier — and safer — to find other queer men, especially in a world that hasn’t always welcomed us. But it also gamified connection. Researchers compare it to a slot machine: you log in, maybe get lucky, maybe not, but the variable reward keeps you hooked. Studies show 77% of Grindr users report regret after logging off. Not because sex isn’t fulfilling, but because the encounters often leave you emptier than before — a cycle of loneliness, objectification, and scrolling for the next fix. Add in the racism, body-shaming, and toxic masculinity that thrive unchecked on the app, and it’s not hard to see how it chips away at real connection. Grindr didn’t just change how queer men date; it reshaped how we even imagine effort. Two taps and a torso pic can count as “interaction.”

That’s the piece I keep coming back to: effort. I’m the guy who opens the car door, not as some outdated chivalry move, but as a genuine act of care. I’m a tall man with a military background who’s always been the protector in my family. Opening the door is how I confirm safety, how I silently say, “I’ve got you.” Acts of service are my love language. They show up in gifts, in quality time, in affirmations. It’s how I move through the world with people I care about. But in dating today, that kind of effort often reads as suspicious. Communicate too openly? Too much. Show intention? Red flag. The bar is so low that showing up consistently — on day one and on day one thousand — seems unthinkable when it should be the baseline.

Here’s my hot take: effort is not the red flag — apathy is. Somewhere along the line, we confused being emotionally guarded with being emotionally mature. We treat detachment as a flex, as though not caring too much means we’re in control. But that’s backwards. Effort is vulnerability. Effort is risk. And risk is the only thing that makes love real. The truth is, the bar has been dragged so far into the dirt that when someone shows up with consistency, it feels abnormal. But maybe that says more about how we’ve lowered our expectations than it does about the person putting in effort.

And I’m not the only one feeling this shift. A recent survey found nearly 80% of Gen Z say they’re burnt out on dating apps. The endless matches, the shallow conversations, the constant ghosting — it wears people down. Even the companies know it. Hinge markets itself as “designed to be deleted.” Tinder added profile prompts to try and make getting to know someone easier. Bumble tried to set new norms by giving prompts to make the message a lower barrier. Everyone is scrambling to fix the burnout that apps themselves created.

But what’s interesting is the pushback. People are returning to offline dating — speed dating events, setups through friends, or just approaching someone in real life. The same Gen Z who grew up swiping are starting to find novelty in talking to strangers in bars, bookstores, gyms. Scarcity makes us value people differently. When you can’t just swipe for another option, you actually show up. You try. You put in effort.

Maybe that’s the lesson apps accidentally taught us: when everything is endless, nothing feels valuable. The irony is that even as apps expanded our access to people, they also cheapened the experience of connection. When you know there are hundreds of profiles waiting, why risk rejection by going all in on one? But that’s exactly what connection requires — the courage to risk, the willingness to care out loud, the audacity to believe someone is worth the effort even without a guarantee.

I don’t think dating apps are evil. They’ve opened doors for people who might never have had access to love or even safe community. But the way we use them has lowered our expectations for each other. We’ve normalized apathy, mistrust, and shortcuts. And the truth is, none of that gets you closer to connection.

Effort does. Effort is the thing we keep losing — and the only thing that makes love possible. Behind every profile is a real person hoping someone will treat them as irreplaceable, not disposable. That’s not too much to ask. That should be the baseline.

Because if love is going to be reshaped by dating apps, then maybe the responsibility is on us to raise the bar again. To remember that effort isn’t desperate — it’s human. And the minute we stop believing that, we’ve lost more than just the art of dating — we’ve lost the art of seeing each other as worth the risk.