When I stepped into a concert venue last month, anticipating a fairly typical evening of live music, I was instead greeted by an unexpected twist — a staff member handed me a colorful bingo card. Each square on that card bore a prompt designed to spark interaction: find someone who shared your favorite color, strike up a conversation with a person who had recently been traveling, or uncover another attendee who had a quirky similarity. The objective was clear: in order to succeed at this playful social game, you had to leave the comfort of familiar circles and strike up conversations with strangers. Initially, the idea seemed less like a prelude to an indie music performance and more akin to an activity at a bridal shower, a setting devoted to icebreakers rather than art. Yet, as it turned out, this was far from an ordinary concert experience. The evening was orchestrated by Sofar Sounds, a company renowned for hosting intimate showcases featuring emerging musicians in unexpected, often secret locations — which might range from small galleries and cozy event spaces to private backyards. But this particular event had an additional twist: it wasn’t just about musical discovery or artistic exploration. It was a concert tailored specifically for singles — an evening where the rhythms of live music intertwined deliberately with the possibility of romance.
According to Sofar Sounds CEO Warren Webster, the company had not originally intended to create events catering specifically to singles. Their initial mission was purely musical. However, as the company’s audience grew, they noticed a surprising trend through user surveys and anecdotal feedback — attendees were not only attending for the music. Many were hoping, consciously or otherwise, to meet someone special. Webster explains that Sofar had observed a surge of attendees purchasing tickets expressly because they wanted to connect with potential partners. The company recognized this emerging social dimension and, in response, began curating events designed around that desire. What started as an experiment quickly expanded internationally. Within a year, Sofar had organized more than 60 singles-themed concerts across 16 cities, collectively drawing an impressive 7,000 participants — all eager not just to discover new sounds but perhaps to glimpse a spark of connection. This phenomenon, Webster notes, reflects the broader cultural climate: a longing for authenticity and connection in an age often defined by algorithms and digital distance.
Sofar Sounds has long positioned itself as an antidote to the algorithmic curation dominating mainstream entertainment platforms. By giving new artists a stage without the distortions of metrics, advertising, or social media virality, the company embodies a type of sincerity and underground allure. Its formula — an exclusive environment, mysterious locations, and the simple act of leaving one’s house — conveys an enviable sense of cool. Webster emphasizes that Sofar’s aim has always been to create an environment where artists could connect “authentically” with audiences, without the filter of mass entertainment machinery. In a digital ecosystem where our dating lives, artistic tastes, and even social interactions are increasingly dictated by opaque algorithms, this deliberate return to in-person experiences represents more than nostalgia. It’s part of a growing movement encouraging people to reengage with spontaneity — to rediscover chance encounters and organic connection. Within that context, the notion of “getting offline” has evolved into a new cultural currency, a kind of status symbol for presence and intentionality.
In recent years, the expression “offline is the new luxury” has circulated broadly across digital platforms. Originally used somewhat ironically alongside photos of lavish vacations or remote retreats, it has come to embody a broader cultural critique. Those who can afford to disconnect, at least temporarily, are seen as possessing not only financial privilege but also the freedom to claim mental and emotional space in a world of relentless connectivity. The concept ties neatly into the growing philosophy of digital minimalism — the conscious effort to reduce digital noise, to post less frequently, and to reassert boundaries between one’s public and private life after years of overexposure. Comedian Aziz Ansari recently offered a striking example when he discussed how he had abandoned email communication, reverted to a flip phone, and even avoided generative AI “chatbots” such as ChatGPT — decisions that, he noted, created more mental clarity and space for genuine thought. Of course, Ansari acknowledges a privilege many lack: he employs an assistant who handles the necessities of modern communication. For the average worker responsible for bills, correspondence, and the daily logistics of professional life, such a digital retreat remains an impractical dream. Nonetheless, the yearning to disengage, even temporarily, from the endless stream of notifications persists. As a result, businesses and communities are crafting new opportunities that make it easier — even fashionable — to put down the phone for an evening and fully immerse oneself in real-world interaction.
Andrew Roth, founder of Offline — a platform dedicated to connecting individuals with local, in-person communities and bridging them with brands — articulates this sentiment in economic terms. He observes that in the current hyperconnected era, “going offline for a week is now the biggest investment you can make, and in some sense, the most luxurious one.” His point emphasizes that digital abstinence is no longer a passive state but an active choice, a deliberate assertion of control. Roth describes this redefinition of luxury not as something exclusive to the wealthy retreating to tropical vacations but as a cultural shift toward accessible well-being that manifests through shared, community-based experiences. In essence, these gatherings democratize what once was restricted to elite wellness culture by turning the simple act of unplugging into a meaningful statement of values.
For years, social media and dating platforms promised effortless connection, drastically lowering the emotional and logistical costs of meeting others. They democratized communication — at least initially — and for some, the internet became a wellspring of friendship and love. Research from the Pew Research Center in 2023 found that roughly one in ten adults in committed relationships met through dating apps, testament to their early success stories. Yet the charm has faded as many platforms succumb to what critics term “enshittification” — the slow degradation that happens when services inflate paywalls, introduce manipulative algorithms, and prioritize profit over user experience. Dating apps that once evoked excitement now frustrate users with diminishing returns, and digital fatigue has birthed viral trends like “Sit at the Bar September” and “Off the Apps October,” both urging singles to abandon swiping culture and return to organic forms of meeting.
Meanwhile, traditional social media platforms have also lost their sheen as “social” spaces. Instead of authentic connection, feeds on TikTok, Instagram, and X are increasingly saturated with AI-generated content — a homogenized blur of artificiality that leaves users feeling detached rather than connected. According to an October 2024 Pew survey, nearly half of teenagers believe that social media has a mostly negative impact on people their age, with a mere 11 percent perceiving it as beneficial. Amid this widespread disillusionment, a new genre of technology has blossomed — social connection apps designed not to keep users perpetually online but to catalyze genuine, in-person interaction.
One of the more visible newcomers in this category is 222, an app that deliberately charges a “curation fee,” a framing that transforms price into a filter to ensure commitment. It matches users with strangers for shared experiences — dinners, events, and meetups — under the same elegant slogan emblazoned on a billboard: “Offline is the new luxury.” In just a short period, the app has raised $3.6 million in funding, hosted thousands of carefully designed gatherings, and amassed hundreds of thousands of members, according to its founder, Keyan Kazemian. Similar platforms such as Timeleft and Pie take complementary approaches: Timeleft organizes communal dinners among strangers, while Pie builds small interest-based groups — such as book clubs or wellness circles — giving users new contexts for friendship and belonging. Even speed dating, an almost retro concept, has resurfaced as younger generations seek something tangible to replace digital swiping.
Perhaps most symbolic of this larger cultural swing is Kanso, a company hosting phone-free events under the motto “for those who were made for more.” Attendees lock away their devices for the evening and focus solely on face-to-face connection. Founder Randy Ginsburg explains that the events, while generally attracting extroverted and ambitious participants, serve not merely as escapes from technology but as structured opportunities for meaningful human engagement. Unlike digital well-being apps that track screen time or impose punitive limitations, Kanso offers an affirmative alternative — experiences compelling enough to make participants willingly forget their screens. Ginsburg likens this shift to adopting other health-oriented routines. Just as proper nutrition or physical exercise requires effort, education, and community support, so too does cultivating a healthier relationship with digital tools. Learning to set boundaries around technology, he argues, involves the same self-discipline and self-awareness as any conscious lifestyle change.
For many individuals, participation in these social experiments is not an abandonment of the online world but rather a search for the elusive “third place” — a concept sociologists use to describe communal spaces beyond the home and workplace where genuine relationships can flourish. Yumi Temple, a 29-year-old public relations professional in Denver, recounts attending a Timeleft dinner that ultimately led to an enduring friendship. She recognizes that her generation, unlike those before, lacks the institutional frameworks — churches, clubs, neighborhood centers — that once created natural meeting spaces. For her, it is not that in-person connections hold inherently greater value; rather, the significance lies in the serendipitous circumstances that draw people together. Nevertheless, because the dinners require a subscription fee and the cost of the meal, Temple admits such events are more of an occasional indulgence than a regular pastime. Yet, she values the guarantee implied by the financial investment — that everyone present is sincerely open to forming new friendships and willing to dedicate genuine time and energy to the process.
Back at the Sofar Sounds concert, this openness was palpable. Once skepticism about the bingo card dissolved, it proved to be the gentlest, most natural conversation starter imaginable. Each interaction felt spontaneous but safe, almost like rediscovering a lost social art. In a world where most of us spend exponentially more hours gazing at glowing screens than into the eyes of friends, these in-person moments, however brief, recapture a sense of reality many now crave. The event reminded me that perhaps the greatest luxury today isn’t found in material excess or digital convenience but in presence itself — in the rare opportunity to be fully offline, even just for a few hours, surrounded by others equally willing to do the same.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/going-offline-became-new-luxury-dating-phones-apps-2025-11
