The algorithm is a fickle god.

I know this becasue I’ve spent three years sacrificing perfectly good content at its digital altar, only to be rewarded with the social media equivalent of an indifferent shrug. But today - oh, today the algorithm decided to smite us for our hubris. And all because of a meme about Gantt charts.

“I don’t get it,” Billie mutters, staring at their screen with the intensity of someone trying to decipher ancient runes. “We were fine yesterday. Today, what, we’re just… invisible?”

Leaning over Billie’s shoulder, my takeaway coffee teetering perilously close to their keyboard, I peer at the analytics dashboard. It’s a barren wasteland of zeros extending into the digital abyss.

“We’ve been shadowbanned,” I murmur, the words dropping from my mouth like lead.

“Is that a thing? For companies?” Billie’s eyes are wide, reflecting the blue glow of impending doom.

“Oh, it’s a thing. The algorithm has judged us adn found us wanting.”

Let me introduce myself. I’m Cass Carmichael, Head of Brand & Engagement at EmotiTech, where we craft enterprise software that helps other companies analyse customer sentiment. It’s rather ironic, given that our own brand currently seems to be flirting with non-existance.

Yesterday, in a moment I considered peak relatable content, I green-lit a meme that compared our project management process to a Jackson Pollock splatter. It featured our Gantt chart overlaid with the caption, “What the deadline feels like vs. what the timeline actually is.” Innocuous, right?

Wrong.

The post initially did rather well - likes, shares, comments flowing in with people nodding about how much we “get it.” Then, around the witching hour, our content was spirited away. Not deleted, just rendered invisible in the algorithmic ether, as if we were shouting into the void wearing invisibility cloaks branded with our company logo.

“Perhaps it’s just a hiccup?” Billie tries, their optimism a beacon in the gloomy office.

“The algorithm doesn’t hiccup, Billie. It judges.”

Sinking back into my chair, which emits a sound of existential dread, I run through possibilities. Did we step on some unspoken digital landmine? Perhaps the algorithm woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

“We need to scour everything,” I declare, pulling up our content calender. “Go through all our scheduled posts. We can’t afford more surprises.”

Billie nods, already typing like they’re trying to outrun the apocalypse. “Do we tell someone? Like, the higher-ups?”

I chuckle, but it sounds like I’m choking. “What, that our digital overlord has ghosted us, and we’re clueless about how long we’ll remain in purgatory?”

“That does sound quite bad when you put it like that…”

The morning dissolves into a frantic excavation of our content history. We sift through hashtags, keywords, image descriptions - desperately searching for what ticked off the digital deities. Nothing jumps out, unless you count our sincere efforts at appearing human.

By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve hatched a theory.

“It’s the earnestness,” I announce, pacing like a caged animal. “The algorithm can smell it. It’s like blood in the water.”

Billie, halfway through a sandwich, looks puzzled. “It detests sincerity?”

“Think about it. What thrives online? Outrage. Scandal. A polished veneer of authenticity that’s just cynicism with a snappy wardrobe.” I pause, struck by my own analogy. “We committed the cardinal sin. We actually meant what we said.”

“That’s…somewhat tragic, Cass.”

“The algorithm is a dark beast, Billie. It feasts on engagement, not joy.”

At that moment, my phone lights up with a notification. It’s from the EmotiTech executive Slack channel, which I’m part of thanks to a clerical error no one’s bothered to fix.

Douglas_COO: Noticed a nosedive in our social metrics. What’s going on?

MarketingVP: Looking into it. Might be a platform issue.

CFO: We need a fix, stat. Got a board meeting to show we’re trending upwards, not vanishing.

A nippy sweat breaks out across my forehead. “They’ve noticed.”

Billie’s eyes widen, a tomato slice hanging from their mouth. “Who?”

“The execs. They’re panicking about the engagement drop.” I show them the screen.

“What’s the plan then?”

Ah, the million-dollar question. How do you explain to your higher-ups that the whims of an inscrutable algorithm have effectively erased your digital presence?

“We’ve got two options,” I say, trying to sound far more confident than I feel. “One: we pretend this was intentional - a strategic ‘cooling off’ period before our next big campaign.”

“Is that actually a thing?”

“Absolutely not, but it could buy us time.”

“And the second option?”

I take a deep breath. “We embrace the madness. Do something so off-the-wall that the algorithm can’t ignore us.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. Host a fierce debate on serif vs. sans serif? A dramatic interpretation of our terms and conditions?”

Billie’s eyes sparkle - a sure sign of trouble. “I’ve got just the thing.”

Thus, at 3:17 PM on a nondescript Tuesday, EmotiTech’s LinkedIn featured me dramatically reciting our privacy policy over a soundtrack of ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra,’ filmed by Billie in what can only be described as an overzealous use of noir.

Was it professional? Hardly. On-brand? Not in this universe. Did it ruffle the algorithm’s feathers enough to notice us? Miraculously, yes.

By 4:30, that post had outperformed everything we’d painstakingly crafted over the past month. Comments rolled in - baffled, amused, but all wonderfully visible.

MarketingVP: What in the world is with the privacy policy performance art?

Douglas_COO: Is this part of our refreshed strategy?

CFO: Whatever it is, it’s working. Keep it up. Engagement’s through the roof.

Billie and I exchange a look that mixes terror with triumph.

“So, we’re back on the map by breaking every rule?” Billie asks.

“The algorithm doesn’t reward virtue, Billie. It craves spectacle.” I recline, feeling the bizarre truth of our strategy settle in. “We tried to play nice with a god of chaos.”

“That’s messed up.”

“That’s digital marketing in the apocalypse for you.”

As we pack up to leave, our dashboards flicker with activity. We’ve appeased the algorithm, for now. But what of tomorrow? Our integrity? My lingering sense of professionalism?

“Think it’ll stick?” Billie asks, shutting down their computer.

I shrug, a veteran of too many digital skirmishes. “With the algorithm? Who knows. Tomorrow, it might adore silent films but loathe interpretive dance.”

“So, we keep playing its game?”

“That’s the gig. We guess the rules, pretend we’ve got a plan, and feign shock when the ground shifts.”

Billie smirks. “Never dull, though, is it?”

“No, never that.”

Walking out into the evening, I can’t help but reflect. The algorithm isn’t just code - it’s a reflection of our bizarre dance for validation, our contortions for a scrap of digital attention, the folly of basing buisness on the whims of tech gods.

Or perhaps, it’s just a glitchy mess, ruled by tech overlords who enjoy moving the goalposts.

Either way, we’ll be back tomorrow, making our offerings to the capricious god of engagement, hopeful for blessings but braced for anarchy.

Because that’s the thing about algorithms - they have no morals, no memory, and absolutely no chill.

Just like the rest of us.