
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a geek—always interested in technical things. Meanwhile, my peers played different kinds of video games, Pokémon, or football. They followed the performances on Eurovision, talking about their bets and the scores of different countries. No one seemed to do what I did.

When I was in primary school, I would build all kinds of mechanical contraptions. Cableways between beds. Tall Lego towers. Robots. By no means was I good at it, but I kept trying until I at least partially succeeded. My tall constructions would quickly look like the leaning tower of Pisa.

Then one day, we had an electronics workshop. We were supposed to turn on a light bulb using three components: a cable, battery, and a bulb. The key here was to create a closed-circuit that lets electrons flow through each component.

I completed the task in seconds. Meanwhile, my peers struggled with the task for several minutes. To be explicit, I don’t blame them. **You see, I had spent a similar amount of time solving the same problem at home, long before.** I was already familiar with it and comfortable with electronics.

That day changed how many of my classmates saw me. Suddenly, I was the "smart" kid. This attention was delightful at first because who doesn't want to be called smart, right? Since I was “smart”, I should also know what 9×13 is, right? Spoiler: I didn't, I was terrible at math. And how was it possible that I also didn't know all the winners in Eurovision? The list goes on and on—so many things the “smart” kid didn’t actually know. The label proved inaccurate, and everyone moved on.

But this situation puzzled me. In my own mind, I was hardly smart at all. I had simply spent all the time they spent on what they liked (like football) on things I liked, like electronics.

So if I’m _not_ “smart”, then what? I prefer “experienced”. Being interested in a niche problem space all my life made me more experienced, not smart. I consider someone smart if they can solve a novel problem in some area they are unfamiliar with.

Still, there are situations where I believe someone did something astonishing. But even there, it’s worthwhile to consider that you don’t know what they’re experienced in. It reminds me of the word “Sonder,” described by [The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows](https://www.dictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/) as the following:

> n. The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed …

The next time you're impressed by the abilities of someone, you might be even more amazed to consider what it took to get there. There is often much more to what they know than you think.


Don't Call Me Smart


The following is a text I've been thinking about writing for years. Both as a cautionary tale to anyone getting into photography, and as an explanation for why I stopped. I've been reluctant to share this, but here's what happened.

# Beginnings

Starting from when I was a kid, I've had a fascination with photography. I used to loan my mom's camera and capture everything that caught my eye. I wasn't any good at all at the start, but after getting my own camera as a birthday present, I improved.

Sometime after that, I started an Instagram account. At first, it was private, and only a few friends viewed what I posted. Limited reach. Getting encouragement and feedback kept me going.

# Going public

Getting older, I made my account public. The motivation for this was to get more feedback. I’d always lacked any significant mentorship in my photography, and I wanted that from people who were better than me. \
 \
The discovery mechanism on Instagram was mostly based on hashtags. To get your posts noticed on a hashtag page, you need to get it popular. It wasn't obvious then, but that was the start of significant pain.

So I started using the hashtags that all the other posts used. Now I started getting likes and followers from strangers. At first, it was delightful. _This_ many people like what I do? Wow.

\
What I didn’t know was that for each new like and follow, a little dopamine was sent out into my brain. Every little bit of attention was a hit of a drug I didn't know about. After a while, you get used to it—wanting more and setting ever higher standards for yourself. Did the latest post get fewer likes than the last few? The photo must be worse.

Soon, I started thinking about how my photos would be perceived even before taking them. I'd reject compositions that I liked before even clicking the shutter. All based on a vague grasp of what appeared to perform well.

# Gaming the algorithm

Set on getting more: likes, followers, comments, I soon found ways to improve my metrics:

1. Optimizing hashtags. Post with tags like #nature also used other tags. I'd locate these and fill my own posts with them. There are even websites made for this.
2. Posting at specific times. I would look at the dominant geographic regions of my followers, and map out optimal times to post. For example, lunchtime on the US west coast.
3. Faking interest. I'd view posts on a hashtag, open the profiles of the posters, and like a bunch of their posts. This led people to my profile.
4. Deleting posts. If any of my posts performed badly, I'd delete them.

# Result

Looking back at these tactics, they seem desperate. In a way, they were. I found myself in a highly competitive environment—too young to reflect on what I was doing: chasing metrics. I had completely lost my original goal in the process.

Using the tactics above, I reached 700 followers. All at the expense of mental health, which had gotten worse the further I got. By then, even picking up my camera gave me anxiety. So in March 2017, I stopped. My mental health quickly improved.

I've been thinking a lot about whom to blame here. There seem to be no simple answers. At its core, Instagram is simply a photo-sharing platform. Maybe the situation could have been prevented from my side. Still, I know that many others use it in similar ways, whether they want to or not. With what’s [coming out](https://www.bbc.com/news/technology-58570353) now about Facebook’s internal research, I suspect this experience is not uncommon.

# Solution (in progress)

I haven't posted anything on Instagram [since then](https://instagram.com/alvarlagerlof). I'd still like to get back to taking and showing some people photos, but I'm still working on the best way to do this.

For now, using my phone reduces friction a lot. Some of these go on my Unsplash, but I'm still looking for the right place. Twitter appears to have a more natural and personal discovery mechanism due to interactions from people you follow being exposed on the feed. But I don’t know. If you know of a better platform, please contact me!


I'm Alvar Lagerlöf

A developer and designer. My story starts with a $2 computer from a flea market. Learn more →

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Don't Call Me Smart

Instagram Ruined Photography for Me

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