Silent Parasite
How Personal Computers Quietly Transformed Life and Attention, from School Labs to Pocket Ecosystems
When I was in elementary school, our school got a few computers. Not just schools — hardly any companies were truly computerized, and all of them ran English-language systems. With only one computer lab and a handful of machines, access became a scarce privilege — students with better English had priority, and there was a fee system. That year, a group of abacus whizzes challenged the computers in speed contests; human calculation won decisively. For the moment, computers were kept from widespread adoption. It was the 1980s, and personal computers were display pieces, not essentials.
In Southeast Asia, personal computers only began to spread widely in the mid-1990s. Prices dropped, making them affordable for families; more importantly, the Internet started entering homes. My father bought a computer for my younger brother’s studies. I was busy drawing comics, so the computer barely helped me — Photoshop was still in development.
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Education brought computers into homes, entertainment brought them into bedrooms, and adult content demanded a door that could close. These private-use needs were what truly drove personal computers into intimate spaces. MP3s, computer games, even adult material — things that couldn’t be used openly in shared family spaces — fueled adoption. They also gave rise to laptops, letting devices move from the living room to desks, rooms, and backpacks. By the late 1990s, I finally had my own personal computer. The transition from family to individual use took nearly five years.
As applications diversified, the abacus experts could no longer compete. Personal computers were no longer the green-on-black, oversized, unwieldy giants of old — they were gradually woven into daily life. In the late 1990s, popular songs even mocked the absurdity of endless upgrades at the height of the craze. No one could have guessed that this entire ecosystem would eventually be crammed into pockets, never to return.
And it didn’t stop with phones. The ecosystem expanded to watches, headphones, and speakers — many devices no longer relying on computers or even compatible with them. Desktop computers had aimed for compatibility; early phones often required a computer to back up and install apps. Mobile logic is entirely different — everything is designed to absorb and self-contain. Fragmentation of technology dismantled usage patterns and social logic, replaced by countless self-contained micro-universes.
These micro-universes seem free, but in reality, they constantly absorb your attention and resources: your phone automatically backs up photos, social apps notify you of likes, your watch nudges you to exercise, your headphones suggest playlists. In daily use, you think you are choosing freedom, but each micro-universe revolves around your behavior, forming a “decentralization” that is actually centered on your resources.
The ambition of desktop computers was to connect everything; the ambition of mobile ecosystems is to pull everything toward them. Abacuses, computer labs, giant screens, and those green-on-black systems pushed to extremes now exist only in memory. Reality has been crammed into pockets, wrists, and ears.
Computers once had sound: the roar of fans, the shriek of dial-up, the click-clack of hard drives. Each noise reminded us it was an outside object, something that required tending to. Now, the “fragmented world” is eerily quiet: it vibrates in your pocket, flashes on your wrist, like a silent parasite. We no longer “use” computers; we are captured by these algorithm-fed micro-universes, surrendering our attention and resources — we no longer control them; we are merely a part of the ecosystem being continuously absorbed.
