The Meaning of Like: Gladiators of the Algorithm

We no longer fight lions—we fight for attention. Every post is a performance in the digital Colosseum, where the crowd’s thumbs decide our worth: one “Like” at a time.

The crowd of ancient Rome becomes the modern feed

Sad to admit: we’ve become consumers of attention.  It’s one of the six basic human needs after all—feeling significant. True, from time to time, you’ll meet people online who claim to write for the sake of writing or post for the joy of self-expression. They say they don’t care how many likes they have or who left them. I imagine them at night, hiding under the blanket, their phone screen lighting up their face as they whisper to themselves, “Just checking… only to see if it uploaded right…” and then quietly counting likes like coins.

Because let’s be honest: I count them openly.

The “Like” is the invention of the century—right after the wheel, the woman, the Internet, and the USB stick. Whoever writes for the drawer may as well stay there. We all need feedback. Even the hermit who meditates in silence secretly hopes someone will admire his enlightenment.

The “Like” is the digital thumbs-up of the modern Colosseum.

Look at my artwork above: a gladiator raises his sword after slaying his opponent. Above him, asking the emperor for mercy: LIKE!

The crowd of ancient Rome becomes the modern feed. The arena is the timeline. The emperor, once deciding life or death with a thumb gesture, is now replaced by your follower with a lazy finger hovering over a heart icon.

It’s the same instinct—just dressed in pixels and hashtags.

We crave validation. But unlike the gladiators, we fight not for survival, but for relevance. Every post, every story, every selfie is a tiny sword swing: “Notice me!” “Approve me!” “Don’t scroll past me!”

And when the crowd is silent, we die a small death.

A few hours after posting something that felt meaningful, funny, or brave—nothing. No engagement. Just digital tumbleweeds. You start refreshing compulsively, questioning your worth, your timing, and your hashtags. You wonder if you’ve somehow offended the algorithm gods. Or worse, become invisible.

Because the algorithm is our new deity, isn’t it?

It blesses some and curses others, and we, the humble creators, keep trying to decipher its moods like ancient priests reading bird entrails.

The irony is that the “Like” was meant to be harmless. A quick, friendly nod. But over time it became currency. A symbol of status. A measure of self-worth. It’s no longer “I enjoyed your post”—it’s “I see you. You matter.”

And that’s dangerous. Because once your value depends on a number, you stop creating from the heart and start performing for the crowd. You post not what you feel, but what you know will get engagement. You shape your art, your thoughts, and even your personality around digital applause.

We are all gladiators now, fighting for attention in a virtual arena where mercy is measured in likes.

I’ve seen it happen to writers, artists, thinkers—people with original voices who slowly reshape themselves into echo chambers because it’s safer. It’s addictive. And it works. But the price is authenticity.

Some say, “Don’t take it personally; it’s just social media.

”Sure. And yet when someone unfollows you, doesn’t it sting? When your post flops, doesn’t it whisper something uncomfortable?

We know it’s not supposed to matter—but it does. Because deep down, it’s not about ego. It’s about connection. The "like" is a modern handshake. A silent “I see you.” And when it’s missing, we feel unseen.

That’s why I made this artwork. The gladiator scene captures the absurd beauty of our times: the drama, the performance, the bloodlust for validation. Only now, no one dies—except maybe a bit of our self-esteem.

It’s funny and tragic at once. We’ve turned human emotion into a metric.

And still, I won’t pretend I’m immune. I like my likes. They keep me going, especially on the days when I wonder why I keep creating. Because creativity without feedback is like shouting into a cave. You want to hear the echo.

But maybe the trick is to remember what “Like” really stands for. Not worship, not proof of worth—but a tiny human pulse saying, “I felt something.”

So yes, I’ll keep counting. But I’ll also keep posting what I love: art that makes people uncomfortable, laugh, or think with their upper mind as well. Because behind every “Like” is a person who took a second out of their scrolling to connect.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s still worth fighting for.