Remember when everyone you knew was on Friendster? Then MySpace? Then Facebook felt permanent—until suddenly your feed became a graveyard of acquaintances you'd forgotten existed, and all the interesting people had scattered to a dozen different apps. Now Twitter's latest chaos has people fleeing to Bluesky, Threads, Mastodon, and wherever else might stick.

This cycle isn't random. It's a predictable pattern driven by the same forces every time: the math of network effects, the inevitability of corporate betrayal, and our eternal hope that this time we'll find a digital home that doesn't eventually feel like a strip mall. Understanding why platforms rise and fall can help you navigate the next migration—because there will definitely be a next one.

Here's the thing about social platforms: they're only valuable because other people are on them. Economists call this a network effect—each new user makes the platform more valuable for everyone else. A phone is useless if you're the only person with one. A social network is just a very elaborate diary if your friends aren't there.

This creates a winner-take-all dynamic during the growth phase. Once a platform hits critical mass, it becomes nearly impossible to compete with. Why would you join the new thing when everyone you know is already somewhere else? This is why Facebook crushed MySpace, why Instagram absorbed the photography community, why TikTok captured an entire generation seemingly overnight. The momentum becomes self-reinforcing.

But here's what platforms forget: the same effect works in reverse. When enough people leave—or even just stop posting—the remaining users notice the emptiness. The feed gets stale. The conversations dry up. Suddenly that insurmountable network advantage becomes a liability, because the perception of decline accelerates actual decline. It's like a bank run, but for attention.

Takeaway

Network effects are a double-edged sword: they create seemingly unshakeable dominance, but once the exodus begins, the same math that built the empire tears it down just as fast.

Every platform starts with a seductive promise: we're building this for you. The early days feel almost utopian. Features respond to user feedback. The algorithm shows you things you actually want to see. Ads are minimal or nonexistent. The founders talk about community and connection with apparent sincerity.

Then the investors need returns. The platform goes public, or gets acquired, or just runs out of runway. Suddenly the product isn't the platform—you're the product. The algorithm optimizes for engagement over enjoyment, which usually means amplifying outrage. Ads multiply like rabbits. Features that made the platform special get killed because they don't monetize well. The founders either leave or transform into corporate spokespeople mouthing platitudes about 'evolving the experience.'

Users tolerate a lot of this. We've been trained to accept gradual degradation as normal. But every platform has a line—some change so egregious that it breaks the spell of normalcy. Twitter's verification chaos. Facebook's privacy scandals. The specific trigger varies, but the pattern is consistent: eventually, the platform's interests diverge so dramatically from user interests that even inertia can't keep people there.

Takeaway

The business model of most social platforms requires eventually exploiting the community that made them valuable in the first place—the betrayal isn't a bug, it's the business plan.

So what do you actually do when the ground shifts beneath your feet? The veterans of multiple platform collapses have developed some hard-won wisdom. First: never put all your social eggs in one basket. The people who weathered Twitter's decline best were those who'd maintained presence on multiple platforms, or who'd built email lists and personal websites as backup channels.

Second, understand that migrations are messy and incomplete. You won't bring everyone with you—some people will stick with the dying platform out of habit, others will scatter to different alternatives, and some will simply disappear into offline life. Accept this loss rather than fighting it. The connections worth maintaining will find their way across platforms; the others were probably already fading.

Third, treat migrations as opportunities for intentional curation. Every platform transition lets you reset your social graph. You don't have to follow everyone you followed before. You don't have to recreate the same dynamics. Some of your best connections on the next platform might be people you barely interacted with on the old one. Migration is exhausting, but it's also a chance to be more deliberate about who you spend your attention on.

Takeaway

Platform migrations are inevitable, so build portable relationships—diversify your digital presence, accept that some connections won't survive the move, and use the chaos as permission to curate more intentionally.

The cycle will keep happening because the incentives haven't changed. Platforms will rise by serving users, then sacrifice user experience for shareholder returns, then collapse when trust erodes past the breaking point. The specific names will change; the pattern won't.

Your job isn't to find the permanent platform—it doesn't exist. Your job is to hold your digital presence loosely, maintain connections through multiple channels, and remember that the community matters more than the container. The people you want to stay connected with will meet you wherever you both end up next.