Social transparency 2.0
A little bit about social media by Mehmet Ihsan Orgut, Kenny D’Evelyn, Federico Picca, Donald Lee Bullock Jr.
It twitched as she stared down curiously. Kristin’s own finger hovered over the mouse button as she willed herself to just click it. Finally, she did.
Unlike many others living in San Francisco, it had been a long time since Kristin willingly shared her data. After the Russians successfully influenced the American public into a second term of Trump, the new regime elected in 2024 mandated changes. Individuals would own their own data and secure it through a blockchain on a cloud based platform: the Universal Data Repository (UDR). Each individual with data on the platform has complete control over how it is used.
The UDR is operated by the United Nations and economically supported from member countries. It was integrated with similar databases from around the world. When the idea for a single repository was first floated, Russia, China, Germany, and the United States each built their own. However, it quickly became clear that to integrate effectively, specific tech specs needed to be adopted by all parties. China and the US were the first to broker an agreement, which was then adopted by the UN’s General Assembly as the Resolution on UDR Specs of 2025.
The UDR collects all the data recorded by social media and internet based companies, organizing and storing them on each individual’s personal blockchain, called a Personal Data House (PDH). Once logged into the UDR, each individual can access her own PDH and — through the support of an AI enabled interface that clusters data by group (personal data, preferences on food, travels, etc.) and sensitivity (highly personal, common knowledge, etc.) — create different Data Profiles of her PDH, including certain clusters of information while excluding others. Once she creates a specific Data Profile from her PDH that meets whatever purpose she is using the data for, she can choose how, with whom, and for how long to share each of these PDH Data Profiles.
The new regulation requires data source companies (i.e. Facebook) to immediately send data they collect on each individual user to the UDR, without keeping a copy in any form. Individuals who choose to obscure large parts or even all of their of their PDH pay a monthly fee to the UDR to maintain their privacy. At the most basic level, the less data is shared, the higher the monthly fee. Different parameters centered around the advertising value of these data are used to calculate the exact amount. The UDR then distributes the payment to the data source companies.
With this complete control, Kristin had decided not to share any of her data. She thought the $25 per month — the cost of not sharing any data — was totally worth her peace of mind, and she’d lived that way for the last six years. Her husband Vance thought she was paranoid, but Kristin felt that complete privacy was the best way to reclaim some of the humanity that technology had taken. Her uncles and aunts were always reminiscing about how easy it was to strike up a conversation with a stranger in the aughts — now you never knew what information someone might have on you.
But now things were different. Her son Tucker had been born 9 months prior and his presence had increasingly pushed Kristin to start thinking about sharing her data. She had known a child would lead to compromise — Vance had always said she couldn’t stay secluded once she was responsible for another life.
So she did. She finally pushed the button. In doing so, she released data — immediately reducing her UDR fee for that month to $10 — and allowing companies to identify her as a new mom and giving them access to run advertisements.
Of course, she wouldn’t see all ads relevant to new moms. Kristin only agreed to release her data to companies that aligned with her values around sustainability, ethical supply-chains, all natural ingredients, and equal pay. Immediately after clicking her mouse, she felt relieved knowing she’d be able to purchase products like formula and baby wipes for Tucker without having to wonder if the companies were up to her standards.
Feeling the weight of the decision lift, Kristen turned her attention to her email inbox. While she had just released her data for commercial consumption for the first time, she’d long been willing to allow a Data Profile that compiled her interests (generated from what she read, emails she sent, what she bought, what she clicked-on, what videos she watched, and other inputs) to be searchable for non-profits and other community groups. That was how she’d gotten connected with the local Outer Sunset PETA chapter. They’d joked when first reaching out that anyone who watched as many dog rescue videos as she did on Facebook was sure to make a great animal activist. Since then, she’d devoted a huge chunk of her time on the weekends to supporting PETA’s work.
As she sat with her computer, Kristin looked off in the distance and thought about how much meaning PETA had brought to her life.Vance raved about the ways his liberal data sharing had made his life better, from constantly connecting to friends to great deals on whatever tech gadget he was fired-up about that month. Kristin didn’t worry about the good deals, but she did wonder if by being so protective of her data she was removing a huge opportunity to enrich her social life. Vance traveled regularly for work and used Facebook’s FriendFinder to reconnect with old pals whenever he was in a different city.
FriendFinder required users to permit the app full data permissions. Specifically, it required access to your location, friends, calendar, an interest profile aggregated from your Facebook posts, and credit card data. It was one of the main drivers of Facebook’s reemergence after hemorrhaging users to Snapchat in the early 20s (the joke was that on Snap, you at least knew the crazy video diatribe your uncle shared would disappear 24 hours later). Vance always set his availability for the FriendFinder around dinner time. The app would then use the credit card data to check if Vance had any plane tickets or hotel reservations to a specific city. If he did, it would look for friends in his network that were both in that city and available when he was.
The pairing could either be manual — meaning one chooses from a list of folks available — or executed according to preferences that were pre-set. Vance tried a few, like meeting with friends who were also into manga or others he was friends with the longest, but he always preferred catching up with those that he hadn’t talked to in the longest time. FriendFinder would do the rest by setting the time and place of the meeting, choosing the restaurant or bar that would best accommodate their preferences, and even choosing the table that would best favour a conversation. Whenever Vance came home he always talked about how nice it was to see Susie from his old Montessori school or what a hoot it was that Matt Arnijo — the kid who had nearly flunked out of sophomore year — had shown up to dinner in a helicopter because his plant based meat company made him billionaire.
Kristin decided she’d see how it went with the baby products. If it wasn’t too intrusive and distracting to know that there were companies out there learning all sorts of things about her than she knew she’d enable FriendFinder shortly thereafter. She heard about how well it worked almost every week from Vance, and if she could handle it mentally, she knew reconnecting with friends would make her happy.
